


smug asshole prince saves the day (and other tales)

by cellorocket



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Bickering, F/M, Fluff, Multi, Romance, Sexual Tension, Sexy Times, Smut, adorable crap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 87,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellorocket/pseuds/cellorocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of tumblr prompt one shots, AUs, and other oddities. There will probably be nakedness. There will definitely be bickering. ILLUSTRATIONS BY SHAYRL aka orange-peach-blossoms</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. petruo

**PROMPT:**

**Levi Squad has just been assembled and Auruo’s sort of showing off and saying how he’s the best of the four. And Petra doubts him and on the first mission Petra is nearly killed but than the asshole prince saves her**

Petra checked the balance of her Three Dimensional Movement Gear and frowned. Something didn’t feel exactly right – a catch in the mechanism, perhaps? She was fairly adept at sensing the severity of problems with her gear, and because slightly imperfect balance was more of an inconvenience than an actual risk, she sighed and put it out of her mind.  She’d get it looked at when they returned.

She shrugged into her jacket and threw her cape over her shoulders before striding out into the bright daylight, where three men waited for her, talking amongst themselves. Her new partners.

She recognized two of them, and knew them as well as you can know a comrade. The first was Gunther Schultz: _reasonable, stern, loyal._ Veteran of the Search column, like she was. The second was Eld Jinn: _blunt, responsible. A good leader._ He was the second in command of the newly formed Special Operations Squad, and with good reason.

She did not know the third man – ashy blond hair, hazel eyes, currently slouched carelessly against the stable with his arms crossed. “Nice of you to join us, Petra,” he said, in a voice that instantly put her on edge.

She frowned. “And you are?”

“Wondering what took you so long,” he said with a smirk. “We don’t have all day. There are Titans to be killed.”

“Auruo,” said Gunther, scowling. “Give it a rest.”

“Now Gunther, don’t be jealous,” said the man named Auruo, and his grin widened. “You’ll catch up to me one of these days.”

And like a lens coming into focus, so too did Petra’s opinion of Auruo crystallize: _arrogant. Smug. Asshole._

She faced him. “Auruo, is it? In my experience big talkers usually need to compensate for something.” She smiled sweetly. “You’re not trying to compensate for something, are you?”

Eld snorted and Gunther covered his mouth, stifling his laughter. Auruo, for his part, turned red as sunburn. “No,” he said, clearly attempting to pass off his reaction as blasé. “And you’ll see soon enough."

“I’m looking forward to it,” she fired back.  

She watched as he saw to his horse, checking that his pack was properly secured and shooting one confused scowl her way before ignoring her completely. _How could such an arrogant fool be chosen for this squad?_

* * *

 

They were instructed to intercept any variant Titans while the rest of the expedition made their way to forward camp. “Get accustomed to working together,” Captain Levi had said. “No showboating.” He did not look at Auruo when he said this, but the squad understood it was for his benefit regardless. Auruo shifted in place and muttered under his breath, and she saw his hands tense on the left hilt of his 3DMG.

The first hour of their mission was largely uneventful. Eld and Gunther spoke in low voices to one another, which meant that she was forced to ride alongside Auruo. She tried to ignore him as much as she could within the parameters of their mission toward achieving unity as a squad – which was not really possible, as she quickly found.

“You know, it’s all right to be a little intimidated,” he said in what he clearly intended to be an understanding tone, guiding his horse closer next to hers. “I am pretty impressive.”

She stared at him incredulously. “You’re pretty ridiculous, you mean.”

“Ridiculously impressive.”

“Saying you are doesn’t _mean_ you are,” she insisted. “And actually, it’s kind of pathetic that you have to try so hard.”

“Well, now you’re just being cruel,” he said, smirking. “ _I’m_ just trying to be friendly.”

“You’re terrible at it,” she said flatly.

“Ah, well. I’m not perfect.” His grin became smug. “Close, though.”

He was really starting to piss her off. “Incredible.”

“What, me?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re the most infuriating, smug, _disgusting_ man I’ve ever met in my life.”

“And _I_ think you protest a little too much,” he said. “Fallen in love with me already, have you?”

She gaped at him, for a moment completely unable to process words. “I – what – _no!”_

“It’s perfectly understandable. I’m aware of the effect I have on women.”

“If you’re talking about making them sick to their stomachs, I’m glad we can finally agree on something!”

“Cut the chatter!” Eld snapped. “Pay attention.”

“Yes, sir,” said Auruo, and he led his horse away from hers, shooting her another irritating grin. Her stomach curled and her hands tightened on the reins, her face burning with shame. This was not her first mission outside the Walls, yet she had allowed Auruo to get so far under skin that she’d behaved disgracefully, worse than a new Cadet fresh in 3DMG. She resolved to ignore infuriating Auruo for the rest of her life.

Twenty minutes later, she heard a shot in the distance and on the horizon a black plume of smoke curved toward the abandoned buildings directly in front of them. No one spoke, but everyone spurred their horses in near unison, streaking toward the melee. She could see the towering form of a 15m class Titan, surrounded by at least four 8m class Titans, barreling through the Communications line and batting aside soldiers like flies.

Her heart raced. She set her teeth and activated her 3DMG, swinging toward the fray. In front of her Eld grappled the side of one of the taller buildings, and she followed suit – soaring through the air, drawing her blades in a single, smooth motion. She was fast – _she was fastest._ She closed on one of the smaller Titans first, neatly dodging as it swung a massive fist in her direction. Grapple, thrust, reverse. Every nerve in her body was thrillingly alive, and so aware – of her breathing, of her comrades soaring at her sides, the way they looped in and out of one another’s path without so much as speaking. She shot toward the exposed neck of the Titan like a bullet from a gun, her blades cutting deep, her shout echoing against the endless sky.

Even Auruo – Auruo, that arrogant fool! – could clearly back up his boasting; she watched as he rocketed past her position, slicing out the neck of the 15m Titan before she could even blink, his triumphant ‘ha!’ resonating in some deep place in her. But before she could allow herself to be impressed, he briefly met her gaze and flashed her that smug smile. And she hated him again.

She would remember the next moment in fits and starts. She had been soaring, that she recalled. Sailing from one end of the abandoned village to the other, intent on a 7m Titan about to knock Gunther out of the sky, when she felt something snap at her back, and suddenly she was not soaring but _falling. She was going to crash, she –_

And she did – she plummeted out of the sky and hit the ground hard, skidding a good five meters before sliding to a stop. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, and a sharp pain shot through her right leg. _Am I stunned, or is my back broken?!_  She struggled to pull herself upright and inspect her gear when a shadow overtook her.

Two Titans. Both 10m class. _Where the hell is the rest of the squad?!_ But she knew – they were half the village away, cleaning up the rest of the horde. By the time they reached her, she would be dead. Smashed against the ground, or in pieces, or burning in the gut of a Titan.

 _No._ She would not die without a fight. She threw aside her broken blades and drew new ones, screaming a wordless challenge to the advancing Titans. They shambled forward, rictus grins on their faces, and she felt real terror freeze her limbs. But she would not meet the end like a coward. _If I’d only had my gear looked at before we’d left …_

One Titan reached for her, massive fingers extending, straining. She pressed her blades parallel and took a might swing, and those Titan fingers fell at her side, thudding on the street like tree trunks. But this was no final measure – the Titan merely reached for her with its other hand, and this time she could not get the proper leverage to sever them.  

It gripped her, squeezing. She tried to scream, but only a breathless yelp came out. She felt her bones creaking as its grip tightened. They would break, she couldn’t breathe – _she couldn’t breathe! --_

There was a blur – that was all she ever saw. A green blur, whirling like a dervish, and the insignia on his cape flashing before her eyes too quickly to be properly marked. She watched the harsh sunlight glint off his blades as he catapulted forward, shifting his balance as an expert would, avoiding the second Titan’s attempt to intercept him. She heard the lush tearing of flesh. A crack. Grapple, balance, reverse. He shot toward the last Titan and drew his blades across its neck with an almost surgical strike, sheer power and grace mingled.

The Titan fell with her still clamped in its fist. Her savior landed hard on the street, pushed aside the Titan’s burning fingers and swept her quickly into his arms before the smoldering corpse could hurt her. As he gripped her tight, she craned up to look at his face. Ashy blond hair. Hazel eyes. Permanent scowl lines. It was Auruo.  “Hold on!” he shouted, and then they were soaring again, whipping faster through the ruined town that she’d thought possible. She had to respect his skill; she couldn't even summon the pride to be grudging about it. Neither his pace nor his balance was thrown off by her additional weight.

“Are you all right?” he yelled.

“My ankle,” she said, her lips trembling. “And my gear.”

She almost didn’t recognize him. Gone was the smug, arrogant asshole from just a few hours ago. His eyes were pitted with something she did not explicitly recognize, and as he carried her, she realized his arms were trembling.

“It’s all right,” he said with a shaky laugh. “Happens to the best of us.”

And in that moment, she loved him.

 

 


	2. petruo

**Prompt by Savkobresiaaa: Stuck in the woods, in the cold, alone together, oh my**

Auruo’s breath comes out in shallow huffs, billowing like clouds in the freezing air between them. She feels his shoulders shaking.

“Your gear?” he whispers.

“Still works.”

“Good.”

They huddle together in a half-frozen alcove, close enough that she can nearly taste his fear, yet still with enough distance to put her mind at ease. It has only been a few hours stranded in this cave, and they are already failing. Her principled stand, so important in average conditions, falters as she looks at him. If she were to scoot close and if he were to drape his arms around her, she would be engulfed by him.

The thought makes her heart race.

Earlier that day, their squad had attempted to pass through a forest when the snow had come, a freak storm that blanketed the ground in nearly a foot of snowfall and turned the air as cold as a razor. They hadn’t been able to see more than an armspan ahead.

And that was when the Titans had found them. They quickly became separated from their squad in the ensuing confusion. She and Auruo escaped only by sheer, dumb chance; they stumbled into a cave small enough to hide them. Now they wait for the storm to pass. And when it does pass, they will make a break for it.

“Th-thought Titans only work in daylight,” Auruo chatters.

“Guess not,” she say, shuddering.

In theory, they could make it. They could survive until the storm passes, use their 3DMG to escape into the trees and use their last signal flares to alert the forward camp, which is about fifteen kilometers away by her best guess. For now, they are far enough into the alcove that only a 15m class Titan could reach inside. In theory, in theory. She shudders again as another blast of cold air tears through the cave. In theory, none of this should have happened at all.

In reality, her plan will require them to survive the night.

“We should t-take off our gear,” Auruo says.

She shakes her head. “If a Titan finds us, w-we won’t be able to escape.”

“The metal is too cold,” he explains. “It’ll b-b-be easier to keep warm w-without it.”

She’s shaking so hard each breath comes out in little halting gasps. Her hands are red raw, stiff with cold – she couldn’t take off her gear even if she wanted to. She can’t feel her face. “I c-c-can’t.”

For a moment she thinks that his cheeks darken – but that can’t be possible, not here. He reaches forward and unbuckles her belt, pulling it off and setting it aside, where he places his a moment later.

“Maybe w-we should get a little closer–“ Auruo says.

“I’m f-fine,” she interrupts him. She may be freezing to death, but she still has her pride. She won’t touch him, and _not_ because she’s afraid of how she might react to that touch.

Impossibly, he grins – even touched by cold, it’s still one of the most infuriating things she’s ever seen. “I w-won’t bite,” he says, like they aren’t stranded in the middle of Titan infested country while a freak storm rages beyond the walls of their cave, like they haven’t been separated from their comrades and now only have one another to rely on.

“S-stop it.”

He smirks but says no more. She thinks she sees a flash of worry cross his expression, but that can’t be right – this is Auruo sitting across from her, close enough that their knees nearly touch. The only thing that worries Auruo is his solo kill count.

The wind howls. Trees creak, branches sway. She can’t see out the mouth of the cave anymore – there is only a sheet of white, pressing against her eyes. She pulls her arms tighter around her knees and tries keep herself still.

She fantasizes about a warm bath, how steam tendrils would curl off the water against her skin, hot enough to sear but not scald, and how heavenly it would feel to live there for the next ten years. She thinks of her room, cocooned in a pile of blankets – how even her stiff cot is an improvement to the freezing ground in this godforsaken cave.

She’s so cold. It’s slowly getting darker outside, though the storm still rages. She fears it will rage through the night. Eleven more hours of this, slowly freezing solid. They will find them years later like they did Ilse Langnar; their identities only distinguishable by the identification on their uniforms.  She shudders so hard her teeth rattle.

Across from her, Auruo rubs his chest with strong, methodical motions – she watches his chapped hands, appreciating their shape; blocky palms, strong fingers. She knows she should be trying to warm her chest too, but she can’t move her arms. _I don’t want him to die,_ she thinks. _It would be a waste._ He’s a fine soldier, and for all his irritating boasting, more than capable of backing his claims up. _He’s kind._ This thought she rejects – all he does is nettle her, trying to find a way in. _But that doesn’t change that he is kind._

Perhaps he is. When he doesn’t think anyone is watching.

_He’s handsome._

__

__

 

She tries to reject this thought too, but now that it has taken root it’s as if everything he does – from the way he breathes to the motions of his arms, the lean line of his thighs, narrow hips– only serves to confirm it. She shudders.

 “P-Petra!”

She realizes Auruo is speaking again. “W-w-what?”

“Your lips are b-blue,” he says, and his eyes are startled.

“W-w-w-“ She can’t get the rest of the word out. 

He pauses for only a moment before unclasping his cape. “Hey, uh – I’m g-gonna need your help,” he says, flashing her an easy grin. “Keeping w-warm, I mean.”

She doesn’t understand. He’s not nearly as badly off as she is.

“I’ll be a p-perfect gentleman, if that’s what you’re w-worried about.”

She can’t speak, so she nods. Even if she could have spoken, she would never have admitted to him that before he noticed her condition, she had been appreciating him, and that a small part of her had wondered exactly what an un-gentlemanly Auruo would do, and how much she would enjoy it.

He shifts to her side of the small cave and crosses his legs, lifting her gently onto his lap and pulling her close so that she can lay her head against his shoulder. He wraps his cape over both of them, so that she can’t see the storm or the cave, so that it is like they are the only two people in the world. His breath warms her cheek.

“B-better already, yeah?” he asks with a weak laugh. His arms tighten around her.

“Y-yes,” she whispers. He’s warm, so warm.

“I’m g-gonna rub your back, all right?” he tells her. “You rub your chest.”

And he does; he slips his hands under her cape and jacket, and slowly she comes alive under them. Each stroke makes her shiver, and an errant thought chases its way through her mind; how those hands would feel on her bare skin. How is he so warm? She is not imagining things – his face is flushed red, and not just from the cold. He catches her glance after a long while and smiles sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“F-for?”

“You look a little overwhelmed.”

She’s angry again. “I’m t-trying not to freeze to death,” she snaps. “It has nothing to do with you.”

_Liar._

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “I know you’re not a big fan of me.”

She stares – _that’s what he meant?_ It’s a surprisingly self-effacing thing to come from Auruo, who in her experience is more prone to arrogant posturing than any real introspection. “You don’t know anything,” she fires back, but the words lack any heat.

His brows furrow and his hands slow, and for a moment it looks as if he is trying to make sense of her, as if she is some vast puzzle that he will never understand.  And at that moment, she doesn’t understand herself either.

They don’t speak for a long time. He resumes his ministrations and she curls against his chest, because it allows her to avoid looking at his face. He is so warm – his cape has trapped their heat, his breathing drowns out the sound of the storm. He smells like soap and sweat, and something heady, distinctly male. She shivers against him, and his arm reflexively tightens around her waist.

“How are your hands still cold?” he asks after a long while, when it is almost too dark to see anymore.

“Bad circulation,” she says distantly. She is not paying attention to the cold, or the storm. She is dizzy. She aches.

“Only you,” he says with a smirk, shaking his head. “You get off on being difficult.”

“Oh, do I?” she snaps. It’s like he’s dumped a bucket of cold water on her head. Apparently this is his talent – taking her from aroused to pissed in less than a second. _I’ll show him cold hands._ She jerkily unbuttons his shirt.

“What are you – shit!” he yelps as she slides her hands over his bare chest. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Warming my hands,” she says innocently. “Just trying to be less difficult.”

“ _This_ is you trying to be less difficult?!” He trembles as she slides her hands further down his stomach, and she tries to ignore how weirdly good he feels – his hips bucking against her, muscles tensing.  He’s breathing hard, and not from the shock of the cold.

Later, she will try and make sense of that freezing night in the cave – she will try and pass it off as exhaustion, or reckless abandon. She will attempt to convince herself that she had suffered one too many brushes with death, and it had made her grip on reality tenuous. Later she will blame him for being too warm, too magnetic, for being comprised of parts that perfectly conjure desire out of nothingness, even in the most inappropriate places.

She straddles him, wrapping her legs around his waist, plunging her hands further inside his shirt. A trail of gooseflesh follows her seeking fingers, and she has never known something so satisfying – his visceral reaction to her touch. He swallows hard, and she watches his Adam’s apple bob in his throat.  

“P-Petra …”

“What?”

His hands hover just over her thighs. “What are you doing?”

“Getting warm,” she breathes, and he shudders.

Tentatively he lowers his hands, as if he doesn’t quite believe she is telling the truth, as if he thinks this is a joke and she’s just waiting for the right moment to laugh at him. She presses her lips to his neck, filled with that maddening, dizzying ache, that acute need for which she has no name. She traces the angle of his jaw with her lips, bringing one hand to his burning face, committing the exact feel of it to memory. When she captures his mouth, he groans and grips her thighs, yanking her so close that there is no longer space between them.

The cold and the storm already seem like distant memories. She can vaguely hear the wind howling, and in the back of her mind she knows she is being unforgivably foolish – they are outside the Walls, cowering in a glorified hole in the ground while the storm runs its course. But the risk somehow amplifies this – makes it stark, thrilling. They could die, so now they should live.

He grips her hips so tightly that she thinks for a wild second he will leave fingerprints in her skin, on her bones. He traces dizzying circles there with his thumbs, and she wonder how he would even have known how to do such a thing.  She slides her hands into his hair and kisses his neck, and he makes a low, wanting sound in the back of his throat. She can hardly stand to hear it, can hardly process the sound over her racing heartbeat.

She’s aware of him fumbling with the buttons on her shirt – there’s a rush of cool air against her chest and then – his hands! She lets out a squeak of surprise, shivering against his freezing palm.

“What?!” he asks, breathless.

“Your hands are cold!”

“Wonder what that’s like,” he mutters.

“My chest is more sensitive than yours,” she argues.  “It would have been like if I’d stuck my hand down your pants with freezing hands.”

It is too dark to see him clearly anymore, but she can vaguely make out his expression of wide-eyed terror. _“Don’t,”_ he threatens, but it’s too late; she wiggles her hips, pulls at his zipper, and slides her fingers down the front of his pants. She only brushes the tip, but he jerks so violently that for a wild second she thinks she’s hurt him.

“Auruo?”

“Fuck,” he says thickly. “Ow.”

“Ow what?!”

He is utterly miserable. “I bit my tongue.”           

 _Don’t laugh, don’t you dare laugh, don’t –_ but she can’t help it; the smallest giggle escapes her, and she claps her free hand to her mouth. “Oh, Auruo.”

The shock of cold (and in Auruo’s case, pain) has brought them crashing back to reality. She realizes that she can no longer hear the howling of the wind, and when she peeks her head out of the curtain his cape has made, she sees that the storm has stopped. At the lip of the alcove she can see gusts of dry snow swirling over the ground. It is almost silent, and a vague feeling of foreboding comes over her. They are no longer insulated by the storm. And this is Titan country.

Slowly, regretfully, they put each other back together. He buttons her shirt, and she buttons his. Her fingers shake when they touch the waist of his pants. Moonlight fills the cave, and she can see him swallow thickly, a little tendril of blood caught at the corner of his mouth. Without speaking, she wipes it away with her thumb.

They remain awake, she curled in his lap, he with his left hand on the hilt of his 3DMG. They each listen intently for rumbling footsteps, crunching snow. She feels him shaking beneath her, and she pulls him close, burrowing her face into his neck.

In the morning, they strap back into their gear and grapple up the tallest tree they can find; an ancient thing at the edge of the forest. Every half hour, they shoot a flare into the sky, and by the fifth they can see their squad and five horses, racing across the snow-tossed plain.

He is respectful of her distance this morning, as if he thinks maybe she’ll want to forget what happened last night. But she doesn’t. Before their squad reaches their position, she touches his arm.

“Come find me tonight,” she tells him.

And after two heartbeats, he nods.  


	3. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PROMPT- PART 2 OF THE FROZEN IN THE CAVE THING PLEASE
> 
> alright, chorus of insistent anons, i hear you. THIS ONE IS STRAIGHT UP PORN YOLO>

 

They ride hard for their base behind the safety of wall Rose. After crouching in a dark cave for the last day, the world seems too bright, scoured clean by the storm. Auruo hasn't felt his fingers or toes properly in two days. He hasn't eaten a decent meal in five. As far as expeditions go, this one had been a typical holding failure – no real loses, but no real gains either.

But they're alive; he and Petra. When they pass under the gate of Wall Rose, he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Petra catches his eye, and a small smile turns her lips. His stomach drops to his feet.

"All right, I have to ask," says Erd. "What the hell is going on with you two?"

Auruo stares; Petra's the one actually able to formulate a thought. "What are you talking about?"

Erd frowns at them. "You two are usually at each other's throats, whether we're behind the Walls or not. But now you don't say a word to each other. Your only interaction is to grin at each other like dopes. Again; what the hell is going on?"

"We're tired," Petra says, just as Auruo snaps: "We almost froze to death, you fucking dumbass."

"Being tired hasn't stopped you before," Erd says, one blond brow arching. "Or near death situations, for that matter."

He's onto them.

Petra fixes him with one of the most impressive glares Auruo's ever seen her muster. "I'd have thought you'd be pleased with some quiet."

"I'd have thought too," Erd mutters. But he allows the line of inquiry to drop, and Auruo can breathe again.

From that moment on, they are more careful. He isn't able to make one of his half-conceived cracks at her expense – his mind is still in a worrying state of blankness – so instead they ignore each other. They see to their horses, unpack their gear. They submit to sitrep with Levi separately, informing him in bland, unattached tones what had transpired. Auruo thinks for a moment that he sees a flash of recognition in the Captain's eyes, but the moment passes and they are free to go.

He scrubs at his face with one hand. Maybe he hit his head sometime in the last five days and doesn't remember. But Petra catches his gaze and he knows this isn't true; the force of it rocks him back, a flash of temper in the crease between her brows. She catches his wrist and drags him through the halls, and does all this without saying a word.

His head spins. Technically, there are no rules against fraternization in the Survey Corps. As long as you do your duty without fucking up, you're allowed to do what (and who) you want in what little free time you have. Yet still it's frowned upon, and especially for him and Petra, as members of the Special Operations Squad. The dynamic is a tenuous thing, and entanglements complicate matters. They are expected to perform as one entity while one a mission; if two members are at each other's throats because of anger or desire, well … there's no room for it.

Petra shoves him into an empty room and shuts the door behind them. "What is wrong with you?" she hisses.

"What?!"

"Are you trying to be as obvious as possible?"

It takes him a moment to understand. She'd assumed they would carry on as normal around their comrades. She doesn't want to be obvious. She doesn't want to be obvious because this barely acknowledged desire between them is inconvenient for her. Inconvenient and embarrassing. He's an embarrassment. Abruptly, he is pissed. "No! What is your problem?"

"You can't go around raking me over the coals every day of your life and then the day I kiss you just stop doing it."

"Are you seriously giving me shit for  _not_ giving you shit?"

"Yes!"

He gets it now. "What was I supposed to do with you grinning at me like a dope?" he demands. "All big-eyed. Tell you to piss off? Am I supposed to read your mind now? Or are you just pissed you're more obvious than you wanted to be?"

"I'm not obvious," she snaps.

He laughs mirthlessly. "Can I win with you, Petra? I give you a hard time, pisses you off. I  _don't_ give you a hard time, pisses you off. What do you want from me?"

He can tell by her expression that she doesn't know, that she's just as lost as he is – halfway caught between the impulse to scream in his face and the desire to kiss him stupid. He can see that she finds everything about this infuriating, so far away from ideal that maybe it's come around full circle. When she thought about her future she probably had a straight-laced soldier in mind, not a foul mouthed fool like him. Well, he sure as hell didn't daydream about some snappish nag crawling under his skin and making herself a home there, slowly driving him insane. He closes the gap between them, because he's not interested in fighting anymore.

"What are you doing?" she breathes, her eyes wide. He's close enough to feel her heat, close enough to feel her trembling.

He captures her face between his hands, and her skin is hot to his touch. She's burning beneath him, burning like the heart of a star, but she doesn't draw away or curse – she only stares at him with those fierce, wide eyes, and he can't stand it anymore. He kisses her so hard that she gasps under his mouth, her hands fisting in his shirt. He can feel her teeth scrape his lower lip, a raw sound in the back of her throat. She bites, and the pain shoots straight to his groin.

"You're a real piece of work," he growls, slipping one arm around her waist and pressing her close.

"Shut up."

It's not freezing in this abandoned room but she shivers under his needing hands as he slips them up her shirt, her lips parting as he palms her rib cage, brushes his fingers against her stomach, reverses quickly to cup her breasts. He's hardly aware of the world outside now, hardy notices when she starts pushing his jacket off his shoulders, tearing at the buttons of his shirt so desperately that one rips off and skitters across the floor.

"You're gonna fix that later," he gasps as she grips him by the waist, her hard fingers biting into bare flesh.

"Fix your own shirt," she breathes into his mouth, and he shudders.

He underestimated her desire – such a foolish mistake. He knows her well enough, should have recognized that intensity in her eyes as something darker, wanting. He figured that she would be borne along, overwhelmed by how much he wants her – but barely a minute has gone by and already he's half naked, and she's sucking on his neck, running arched fingers through his hair, and he thinks he may actually die. He'll never underestimate her again.

She hits a sweet spot he didn't even know he had– the live-wire skin at the space between his earlobe and neck, and  _fuck,_ her tongue is right there, sliding, sucking– he moans, his hands clenching into fists, his whole body taunt as a bowstring and thrumming. He isn't exactly aware of pushing her up against the wall so hard that her feet lift off the floor, but she gasps when he pulls at her jacket and tears off her shirt, actually ripping a seam in his insane haste to feel her bare skin against his.

"Now look what you did," she chastises, but there is breathless laughter in her voice.

"God, shut up," he groans into her neck.

She is driving him crazy, everything that she does now; the way he can feel each muscle shift beneath her skin, how she responds to each touch enthusiastically, ecstatically, the way she shudders when he brushes her nipples with his thumb. She is hard and soft in equal measure; lean stomach, strong thighs, but slim shoulders, soft breasts that perfectly fill his hands. "Auruo," she moans, and he's never loved his name more.

And just as abruptly, she takes control. She captures his wrists, forces his hands down. "What-?"

She pulls, she leads. He's walking backward, she forward. She guides him, her hands still closed around his wrists, and he can't look away from her – from her eyes, not even to see where they're going. With a devious little smile that might actually drive him insane, she releases his hands and pushes. He falls – not on the floor, but on a bed – and a little  _oof_ escaping him as he lands.

He hadn't even realized they'd run into a bedroom. So much for being obvious.

But she doesn't rejoin him immediately. She unbuckles her belts, steps out of her boots, shimmies her pants down her lush hips until she is bare, totally naked. He can't breathe. He reaches for her but she wiggles away, pressing him back down to the mattress with one firm finger. "Wait," she says.

"Petra …"

Slowly, she undoes him. Eases his boots off, her fingers inching up to the waist of his pants, brushing the skin between before sliding them off his hips and flinging them away. She is poised above him, not touching; he sees the muscles in her stomach tense, her breasts shivering as she leans close. He has to touch her, but as he reaches again she captures his hand. "No."

"Fuck, Petra."

"You can't touch me yet."

She's trying to drive him insane. Here she is, her naked body just inches away from his, so close that they share heat, that he can feel her breath warm the risen, live skin of his stomach. "You –  _fuck."_

He can't finish his thought, can't remember what that thought even was, because she's taken the length of him in her mouth, her tongue sliding up the underside and down again. His hands clench on the mattress, sheets bunching in his fist. He can't touch her but she touches him – palms flat against his hip bones, sliding up to his stomach then back to brush his thighs, and all the while she bobs, and her mouth is so wet, so lush, she feels so  _good –_ He thrusts clumsily into her mouth, throwing his head back on the pillow, eyes rolling. He sees stars.

She resurfaces with an audible  _pop_ that makes her grin, and he can't stand it – he has to touch her  _now_ or he'll lose his mind. He reaches for her but she captures his wrists again, pinning them over his head. She straddles him, and he can feel the heat between her thighs against his straining erection.

"Not yet," she whispers.

"You're an evil woman," he says hoarsely.

"You like it."

Slowly, maddeningly, she guides him inside – the tip, then right to the hilt in a motion that makes him groan. She turns her hips in insane little circles, her mouth a perfect little  _o,_ her hands tightening around his wrists as she increases the pace. She is just as wet as her mouth, and he can't breathe or think, he can only watch her move above him, feel her shudder above him, around him, listen to the sated little moans that escape with every stroke.

She releases his wrists, and he takes this as the permission he's so desperately waited for – he surges upright and wraps his arm around her waist to keep her from falling over, his palm slapping against skin of her back. She shudders again when he touches her, kisses her neck, captures one nipple in his mouth and flicks it with his tongue, and it is maddening –  _she is maddening._ Before she can make a sound, he's pinned her in one smooth motion, thrusting so hard that the bed rattles against the wall.

She throws her head back, a cry caught in the back of her throat. He slings her leg over his shoulder and drives deeply, shuddering when she gasps, her back arching. She reaches for him –bracing against his shoulders as he thrusts, her fingers dragging up his back, gripping his thighs to pull him deeper – and he thinks for one small second about driving her mad in the same way, about forcing her hands down and watching her writhe from the insane ache of needing. But her touch feels too good and he can't –

" _Yes,"_  she breathes when he cups her ass. They are pressed skin to skin, line to line, her breasts shivering against his chest, and the only thing he can hear is the sound of their ragged breathing, mingled. He is close,  _so fucking close,_ he can feel orgasm building to an insane height, his whole body shuddering from the force of it, and still she does not let him go.

"Petra …" he moans brokenly against the curve of her neck, shuddering hard, the orgasm tearing through him like fire. And even now, she guides him over, her hands curled by want, pulling him deep, merciful in the moment when he so desperately needed her to be.

It takes him a long time to come down. Every nerve in his body is live, every sensation almost too intense to bear. He feels her trembling under him, one hand lightly brushing up his back, her breathing loud in his ear.

"Fuck, Petra …" he sighs, collapsing next to her and curling around her still shivering body. He palms her stomach, brushes his fingers over her ribcage, appreciating even after he is sated. "You drive me crazy."

"Good," she says, cupping his face with one trembling hand before kissing him gently.


	4. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by aurruo: Auruo has the flu and is being a giant pissbaby about it, Petra takes care of his whiny ass. MODERN AU

After an interminably long week filled a thousand small emergencies and a few large ones, Petra was looking forward to having a weekend entirely to herself. She’d fantasized about it while at the office, working against sixteen imminent deadlines and a boss who did not seem to understand the concept of human limits. She’d daydreamed about spending all sixty hours in her pjs, with a mug of tea the size of her head, steadily working through her Netflix queue. She fantasized about taking at least six baths, each with a different scented salt, and ordering her weight in Pad Thai.

She would get to do only one of these things.

Friday evening, she stepped into the misty rain and smiled; her heavenly weekend was nearly at hand, and the only thing in the way now was a short Tri-Met ride home. On a whim, she typed out a quick text to Auruo. Her phone buzzed with the reply after less than a minute.

            _Petra: Where are you? Haven’t heard from you all day._

_Auruo: i’m dying. nice knowing you_

She let out a sigh.

_Petra: You’re not dying._

_Auruo: am too_

_Petra: You’d have more pressing things to do than dramatically whine about dying if you were actually dying._

_Auruo: shows what you know_

_Auruo: don’t worry about it petra. just let me die in peace_

She knew she should. He probably didn’t have anything more serious than a cold, and was blowing it out of proportion in typical fashion. She should ignore his crybaby texts and go home, crawl into bed and sleep for the whole weekend. She should do everything she planned, exactly as she planned, because dammit _she deserved a weekend._ But she imagined Auruo actually sick, miserable, and all alone in his awful apartment, and the fantasy of her perfect weekend faded away. It was replaced by a new plan: take care of that useless, insufferable man.

            _Petra: Don’t go anywhere or do anything. And put on some pants._

_Auruo: why_

_Petra: I’m coming over._

_Auruo: dont_

_Auruo: last thing i need is a nag nurse_

_Petra: Then you should have thought of that before you whined to me about dying._

She smirked, stowing her phone in her purse and stoutly ignoring the barrage of panicked texts he sent her way. It took her about a half hour to get from her office to his apartment via the Metra, and she took advantage of the last bit of relative peace she’d have all weekend, putting in her earbuds and listening to some Bon Iver. This was not the first time Auruo had gotten some kind of bug, cheerfully proceeding to make her life a living hell while he moped around, coughing pathetically and refusing to take care of himself.

Then again, she was the one volunteering herself for a weekend as nursemaid.

If it were anyone else, she wouldn’t bother. She was protective of her free time because she didn’t have enough of it. She worked hard and put every ounce of professional energy into her career as a journalist, so when the weekends came she usually spent at least half the time churning out content in service of the ever present deadline. But Auruo lived in her life on a different set of rules – ones neither of them exactly understood.

They’d been friends since childhood. They fought almost constantly, but she cared about that stupid bastard more than she knew how to say. No matter how badly he pissed her off, she couldn’t seem to put him in his place, the same little boxes she’d put any other man that made her life more difficult than it needed to be. It wasn’t any relationship like she’d ever heard about, and she’d probably go her whole life without understanding exactly what they were, or indeed understanding anything besides the fact that she just wanted him around.

She took the elevator up to his floor, scrolling through the texts he’d sent.

            _Auruo: i’m feeling a lot better_

_Auruo: going for a walk, see you monday_

_Auruo: i forgot i have tickets to a concert or something_

_Auruo: and i have a date_

_Auruo: she’s a model_

_Auruo: and not a pushy nag like some people i know_

_Auruo: DONT COME OVER_

_Petra: Too late._

She sifted through her keys until she found the one to his apartment and let herself in. She was met with the expected squalor: A week old pizza box on the coffee table, ashtrays that hadn’t been emptied in at least twice as long, a bottle of beer sitting on the TV, currently blasting Band of Brothers. And the man himself; perched on the windowsill and braced against the fire escape, shirtless, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and wrapped in an ancient quilt, waving his arms like a madman.

“What are you doing?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“Just getting some fresh air, you know,” he said weakly, coughing. “Also do you know how to read? I said don’t come over.”

She picked up a still smoldering cigarette butt, her temper spiking. _“Are you seriously smoking?!”_

“I’m not!”

“So this cigarette just went off and smoked itself, did it? Did you by chance buy magical self-smoking cigarettes the last time you ventured outside your disgusting cave?”

He clambered awkwardly back inside, taking advantage of his superior height to glare down at her. “Give it,” he said, snatching the butt out of her fingers.

“I told you to stop doing this, Auruo!”

“I told you stop being an insufferable nag, and we all know how that’s worked out.”

She sighed, pushing the window shut.  “Right, right. I’m a nag. Come here.”

He tried to evade her, but she took him gently by the arm and pressed the back of her hand to his clammy brow. “You’re really hot,” she said, frowning.

“Sure am,” he said reflexively, shooting her a smug grin.

“No, you idiot. You probably have a fever.”

“Petra, come on …”

She ignored his protests and steered him to the couch before giving him a firm push. He plopped down with a petulant scowl. “Just … stay there. I need to pick up this mess.”

He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “For fuck’s sake. Just leave it.”

“You live like a pig, you know that? It is literally like an animal lives here instead of a grown man.” She scowled, tossing empty pizza boxes and beer bottles into a trash bag, dumping out the ashtrays as she went. “It’s a miracle you haven’t died of some fungal infection by now.”

“You’re blowing it out of proportion, as usual,” he said from his supine position on the couch, pulling the quilt tighter around his shoulders. “I’m a creative type. Messiness is a sign of genius, you know.”

“You’re a web designer,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You write code. And what kind of crappy pop-psych website did you dig up that little nugget?”

“Petra, as always, your presence soothes and inspires,” he sighed, trailing off into another bout of coughing.

She tied off the now bulging trashbag and set it by the door before crossing to the kitchen and digging out the thermometer from a drawer stuffed with takeout receipts going back at least two years. (She knew where almost everything was in his apartment, including the secret places he hid his cigarettes, though he kept things in places that made no sense to her whatsoever). She knelt beside the couch and touched his arm. “Open.”

“Petra …”

“Come on.”

After shooting her another scowl he obeyed, and she tucked the thermometer under his tongue. Effectively silenced, he was no longer the irritating man-child that drove her completely crazy on a daily basis but slightly adorable: bundled up in his quilt, tufts of sweaty hair sticking out in all directions, eyeing her with an expression she still could not reconcile. If she had to put a name on it, she’d describe it as halfway caught between petulant irritation and grudging appreciation, but that failed to catch the oddly tender quality of his eyes as he studied her face. But that couldn’t be right. Auruo didn’t look at anything approaching tenderness or vulnerability. He was the literal personification of a cactus.

The thermometer beeped and she withdrew it from his mouth. “100.9. Looks like you’re actually sick.”

And the tenderness vanished, replaced by a familiar scowl. “Why wouldn’t I be? You think I inadvertently summoned you here for shits and giggles?”

“Who knows why you do the things you do,” she said. “I’d start making you some soup but I assume you don’t have anything in your fridge except for ketchup and beer.”

“That’s not all,” he muttered, and she knew she’d caught him.

“What else?”

Silence. He coughed, curling into a ball on the couch; she could see the red tips of his ears peeking out from the blanket. “There’s some mustard too.”

“Auruo.” His name came out an exasperated sigh.

She rummaged through the cupboards before finally producing a clean glass, filling it with cold water from the sink. She set it on the coffee table next to him and pushed back the sweaty hair off his brow, which was alarmingly warm. “I’m going to the store to get you some things. Drink your water and stay inside.”

One arm emerged from the blanket cocoon, pointing to the table by the door. “There’s some cash in my wallet,” he said, shuddering as another wave of chills overtook him.

“All right,” she said as she stood. He was too deeply buried in his blankets to see that she did not take what she needed; she felt odd taking his money even though technically she was buying things for him. “I’ll know if you smoke again,” she reminded him.

He grumbled from within his blanket. She heard the words ‘fuckin’ nag’ as she closed the front door behind her.

It was a twenty minute walk to the nearest store, and during the trek it began to rain in earnest. Petra hiked her collar to her ears and hunched her shoulders, but she was soaked in minutes; slipping on the slick insides of her pumps, her wool skirt rubbing her legs raw even through the nylons. Exposed to the downpour, her stylish bob went stringy, strands clinging to her face and neck. She thought of her umbrella, uselessly perched next to the front door – supposedly where it would be easier to remember.

To make matters worse, the inside of the store was freezing – because apparently April in Seattle was an excellent time to break out the AC. She shivered as she threw soda crackers and chicken stock into the cart, nearly biting through her lip to keep from dropping a bag of egg noodles. She thought longingly of the bath she should have been enjoying right this minute instead of freezing to death in a dimly lit bodega. But she remembered Auruo, huddled on his couch and shivering through fever bad enough to briefly stop his complaining, and her resolve strengthened. It was only a little rain, and a little cold. 

She paid for the food and medicine and pulled the back of her coat over her head before stepping back out into the storm. Her phone buzzed, and she shifted the bag awkwardly on her hip so she could dig it out of her purse and see what the hell he wanted now.

_Auruo: its raining_

She eyed the downpour from her safe vantage point under the awning of a salon.

_Petra: I can see that._

_Auruo: you forgot your umbrella again_

_Petra: What about it?_

_Auruo: stop being a cheapskate and get a cab_

_Petra: How do you know I’m not?_

_Auruo: because i know you. just use the cash i gave you._

_Petra: I didn’t take your money._

She could almost hear the stream of expletives from here.

            _Auruo: why do you have to be so fucking difficult?!_

_Petra: I could easily ask you the same._

_Auruo: for fucks sake. i dont want you catching a cold and dying of pneumonia because youre too scatterbrained to remember your goddamn umbrella and too stubborn to accept help     from anyone._

She froze. He was _concerned?_ Naturally, it was draped in a thousand layers of his typically irascible affect, but beneath the cursing and grumping it was there; the steady, stunning heart of what he felt.

            _Petra: I’ll be able to get out of the rain faster if you stop texting me._

_Auruo: no ones making you text me back_

Fuming, she stuffed her phone back into her purse.

Despite the added weight of her purchases, she was able to make it back to his apartment in less time than it had taken to get to the store. She half expected to find him hanging out of the window, desperately smoking a half-gone cigarette, but when she pushed open the door she saw he was still bundled on the couch, his ashy-blond hair poking out the top of his blanket cocoon. The glass of water lay untouched. Of course.

He looked up when she shut the door. “Look at you,” he said weakly, a shudder rippling through him. “Like a f-fuckin’ drowned cat.”

She dropped the bag of groceries on the table and angrily shucked her coat, tossing it over the back of a chair. “It’s like a tic with you, isn’t it?” she snapped. “Can’t be nice, god forbid. Better say something shitty before anyone gets the wrong idea.”

He opened his mouth to retort when he got a good look at her, and the words seemed to die in his throat. He swallowed hard. She didn’t understand his reaction until she watched his gaze travel down before jumping back up to her face, and she realized – _oh._ Her soaked white shirt clung obscenely to her chest, and to her added humiliation, she was _cold._

Flushing to the roots of her hair, she snatched the groceries from the table and fled to the tiny kitchen. She lit the stove, filled one pot with water and slammed another pan down and coated it with olive oil. She busied herself because it was easier than thinking or acknowledging her utter disgrace, better than acknowledging the sick, weirdly attractive man in the living room, and the way her first reaction to his stare had not been to flinch away, but to be pleased he found her worth staring at.

But busy hands were no cure all; she found herself thinking anyway. She remembered the last time she and Auruo had gone out. After months of work, she’d published a huge piece to a massively positive response, and Auruo had insisted on taking her to her favorite bar to celebrate. They’d had too much to drink – hanging over their table, five drinks deep, giggling at each other.

“You’re fuckin’ … you’re – _fuck,”_ Auruo had wheezed, clutching his sides. She couldn’t even speak – she’d just laughed so hard that she fell out of her seat, sprawling on the sticky bar floor. He’d lurched out of his seat after her, paroxysms of hilarity rendering him mute. But he’d still managed to lift her as easily as he might lift a child, and before he’d been able to say anything she’d clambered onto his back. And that she remembered especially – that she’d literally rode him back home.

She remembered that they’d giggled all the way back to her apartment, about stupid, normally unfunny things – a busted street sign, a banjo-playing busker serenading them as they walked past. She remembered that he dissolved into obnoxious laughter when she smashed all the elevator call buttons, effectively screwing over its next occupant. She remembered half-falling, half diving into her apartment, crashing into a pile on the couch, limbs tangled, laughing so hard that they were crying, so hard they couldn’t breathe.

She remembered him on top of her, the sight of his flushed face, ashy-blond hair curling over his forehead, his smile. She remembered being inexplicably drawn to his face, to those permanent scowl lines at the side of his mouth, tracing them with her fingers. She remembered kissing him hard.

The next morning, she’d pretended not to remember anything – not the way he’d responded instantly, the moan that had caught at the back of her throat when he kissed her neck, or the way it felt to be pressed so tightly against him that they did not breathe the air, only each other. She didn’t know if Auruo agreed because he really didn’t remember what happened, or because he’d decided to humor her. She didn’t know what was worse.

Petra lay the chicken cutlets into the pan, seasoning liberally with pepper and watching them sizzle. It wasn’t warm enough. An involuntary shudder rippled through her – from the cold, or the memory?

Nothing had happened. They’d just made out like horny teenagers. 

The chicken was nearly done when she heard Auruo clear his throat behind her. She turned, steeling herself for the next barrage on her sanity. He’d put on a shirt, his hair sticking out in messy tufts, his face wan, eyes darkly circled. He had a neatly folded shirt and pair of sweats in his hands, and he held them out to her. “Here.”

She turned back to the stove and forced herself not to shiver. “You want me to do your laundry now?” she said, deliberately being obtuse.

 _“No,”_ he said – not too sick for an incredulous glare, apparently. _“_ For fuck’s sake. You’re soaked, I’m giving you some dry clothes before you fuckin’ catch a cold or something. And before you say anything, they’re clean.”

Something froze the biting reply on her lips; instead, she studied him. He was tall and awkward and frequently snappish – he somehow managed to be irritated and irritating --but right now he only looked miserable; sick with the flu, shivering through his chills and aches, his face unnaturally pale. Yet he still had the space in him to care about her freezing in rain-soaked clothes.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He half-shrugged. “Just … yeah. Here.”

She turned off the stove and took the clothes out of his hands, but instead of leaving to change, she set them aside and rummaged through the grocery sack, finally producing a bottle of cold and flu syrup. “Come here,” she said, pouring a dose.

He blanched. “You know I hate that stuff.”

“Don’t be a baby. It’ll help with your fever. And your aches.”

“I don’t need it.”

Before he could pull away, she pressed the back of her hand to his clammy brow. “Is that so? Because you look worse and feel warmer.”

Had he been healthy, they would have gone back and forth on the matter all night, but now he seemed to lack the energy to argue it further. He took the little cup out of her hands and threw back the medicine with little more than a grimace.

“Now the water.”

“Petra…”

“I won’t change until you drink it all.”

He scowled. “Someone else would feel guilty about taking advantage of my very fuckin’ noble concern.”

“This hypothetical someone doesn’t know it takes underhanded tactics to get you to do anything.” She bit back a smile. “Especially anything involved in taking care of yourself.”

She was true to her word. She waited until he’d settled back on the couch and downed the whole glass, watching as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying not to acknowledge that she found the sight of it odd and endearing. “Now you,” he said – miserable and feverish, and so reassuringly stubborn.

Satisfied, she kicked off her pumps and padded into the tiny bathroom, closing the door tightly behind her. She tried to avoid glancing at the mirror because she suspected her reflection would only depress her, but to no avail; her hair had half dried in straggly tangles, her makeup was splotchy, mascara smudged under her eyes like a linebacker’s. Worse, her eyes had a bruised, overwhelmed look to them; she hardly resembled the steely, hard-bitten journalist that she was most days. _There’s a face that sunk a thousand ships,_ she thought, scowling, and the scowl completed the horrible picture.

It annoyed her to realize that Auruo probably hadn’t been staring because he found her attractive. He’d been staring because she really did look like a drowned cat. Fantastic.

She unbuttoned her blouse and wiggled out of her skirt, shucking her nylons with a sigh. She washed her face and combed through her gross hair, and only when she felt moderately clean and put together did she throw Auruo’s shirt over her head, settling the sweats over her hips. Everything was way too big for her, of course – she was practically swimming in extra fabric – but the clothes were warm and dry, and even better, they smelled like him.

She chanced one last look at herself in the mirror and froze, staring at the words emblazoned across her chest and remembering.

They’d been in Chicago. She’d had to go for a conference, and he’d tagged along because he said he didn’t have anything better to do. On their last day, they trawled Navy Pier; poking through the shops and stalls, watching a movie about the Hubble Telescope on IMAX. They rode the Ferris Wheel because she’d wanted to, and he’d come along because waiting in the jostling crowd was even more insufferable than riding ‘the most boring fuckin’ thing on the planet.’ Later, they watched the sunset over Lake Michigan and shared a massive bowl of shrimp mac at Bubba Gump. On a whim, she bought him a green long sleeved shirt that said ‘Stupid Is as Stupid Does’.

“You know I’m going to trash this fuckin’ thing soon as you turn around, right?” he’d grumbled.

“Have at it,” she said, smirking.

Here was the same stupid shirt nearly a year later, and it had been worn so many times that the green was faded, and the cotton was soft against her skin.

* * *

 

Before she resumed cooking the chicken soup, Petra crouched at the side of the couch. “Go to bed,” she said softly.

He waved her off.“…’m fine here,” he mumbled, curling into a tight ball and shivering. In all likelihood, his bed was covered with clothes and books and other random items – he usually ended up sleeping at his desk after working a long night, and as a result the bed had become an extension of his closet. Another one of his idiosyncrasies that she simultaneously hated and adored.

“You might consider using your bed like a bed one of these days,” she said without the usual rancor; against her will, the words were tender.

“ … ‘m a creative type,” he said, half-buried in his quilt. “We don’t sleep in beds. We drink coffee and smoke cigarettes instead of sleeping.”

She pushed the sweaty hair off his brow. “I really wish you’d stop smoking, Auruo.”

He shuddered. “And if I did, what would you nag me about then?”  

“I’m sure I’d find something.”

“Heh.” His gaze focused on her, a half-grin curving his lips. Loopy from the medicine, probably. “This is a good look for you.”

“What look? Drowned cat?”

“No,” he shook his head. “You in my clothes.”

She stayed with him until his eyes closed and his breathing slowed, until she was certain that he’d fallen asleep. He looked younger, somehow; less annoyed by circumstances, less wryly amused, and more the person she’d known more than half her life.

She cooked late into night, and when the soup was finished she scoured every inch of his apartment. She scrubbed the counters, the tables, wiped the dust off the bookshelves stacked haphazardly with half-desiccated paperbacks picked up from library liquidation sales. She rolled up her sleeves and scrubbed the disgusting bathtub into submission, which took the better part of an hour alone.

But she hesitated in front of his bedroom. It wasn’t like she’d never seen the room before; there’d been enough nights where she’d carted his drunk ass home and dumped him in bed (and the same went for her, actually; he’d seen every inch of her own immaculate apartment). But in light of recent events, the room had become mysterious, acquiring a thrilling, dizzying purpose. This was where he brought his dates. In theory.

He mentioned them only when he was annoyed with her – the women he supposedly dated – and her insecurities conjured up visions of impossibly tall, curvy women with blood red lips, leggy brunettes with soulful eyes, who laughed at the right times, who didn’t nettle or nag, who weren’t pushy and intense about everything.

She frowned at herself. There was no reason to be jealous. She had no claim on him, and he had no claim on her. They were old friends who sometimes made out when drunk. End of story.                  

When there was nothing left to clean, she perched on the end of the couch and half-watched the History Channel. She was too aware of Auruo next to her to concentrate on the TV, too conscious of the shape of his body curled in a way that managed to be artless and graceful at the same time, his bare feet poking out from the blankets.

Saturday his fever was worse – 101.8. She plied him with tea and medicine in equal turns, and even managed to convince him to take some chicken broth left over from her soup. She felt frantic but never showed it; in the face of crisis, she could slip into a purposeful trance, doing only what needed to be done, thinking only of things that were relevant. And Auruo was relevant; the burn of fever under her hands, the battle she waged with his temperature, the dim way he watched her moving through his apartment, and once – she thought, just a trick of the light – a faint smile on his lips.

“Sorry you had to bail on your date,” she said sometime in the midafternoon, trying to mask how hurt she was with an ill-conceived joke.

“What date?”

“The model.”

He was too feverish to say anything smug or sarcastic; instead, he looked at her with a total absence of guile. “There was no date,” he said, half-muffled by the pillow. “There aren’t ever any dates.”

He fell asleep not long after, and she was left to contend with this truth he’d so carelessly admitted, a truth he might never have confessed in any other circumstances.

* * *

 

As the weekend wore on, she became convinced she was failing in this – he wasn’t improving, he was so ill and weak, nothing she did made a difference. She’d have done anything to get the scowling, smug Auruo back, even when he was calling her a drowned cat and hurling pointed barbs at her with comforting regularity. It was better than seeing him like this; sick and miserable, and being powerless to actually do anything about it.

But something changed in the early hours of Sunday morning. The feverish sheen faded from his brow, and his sleep grew less fitful. He mumbled something unintelligible and shifted to the other side of the couch, the _side where she was sitting! –_ resting his head on her lap and wrapping his arms around her.

She froze, stunned. Her heart beat so loudly in her ears that she thought the sound would surely wake him up, but he didn’t stir. She took a deep breath, then another. She willed herself to be calm. It was only the first time he’d been anywhere near her legs, and she hadn’t showered or slept since Friday. _Oh, my god._

But as she watched him, her panic faded. She pushed back his tousled hair gently, her fingers brushing his cheek, and it was wonderful to touch him like this. She thought how it’d be if she managed to stop being a coward for two seconds in her life, if she could look him in the eye and tell him that she did remember that night they’d kissed, that she hadn’t been able to forget it no matter how desperately she tried– not while awake or asleep.  

Sunday morning, just as a headache pressed itself between her brows, his fever finally broke. He sat up and blearily surveyed the room. There were lines pressed into his cheek from the pillow, and his hair even messier than normal, curling chaotically off his brow. It wasn’t fair that he could look so adorable on the back end of the flu.

“You’re looking better,” she said from her corner of the couch, nursing a cup of tea.

He blinked at her. “I didn’t think you’d actually be here.”

“Why?”

“Fever dreams, I guess,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I’m fucking starving.”

“Think you can keep down that soup I made Friday?”

He shot her a grin. “Depends on how good it is.”

She reheated the soup on the stove, purposefully ignoring his comments about using the microwave, and served him a giant bowl full to the brim. To her amusement, he consumed the entire serving, and then two more. He hadn’t even tried to make a disparaging comment on how it was crap but it’d have to do for now; he devoured it with delight, which in turn delighted her. “No smart remarks?” she asked him, grinning.

“Are these actual cheese dumplings?!” he said, the words muffled as he chewed. “Where’d you learn to make this?”

She shrugged modestly. “I tinker.”

“You’re full of shit. Who’d you steal the recipe from?”

“Believe it or not, I’m an accomplished cook and I don’t need to steal.”

“Yeah, right.” He upended the bowl, slurping the dregs. “Aren’t you going to have any of this?”

She shrugged again. “Nah.”

“You spent the whole weekend ‘tinkering’ with it. Why wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not really hungry.”

It occurred to her that his gaze had become worried. She brushed it off; likely she was reading into things again.

She figured she could safely leave him now, but going home would mean putting on her rain-stiffened work clothes and slogging back to her apartment in shoes that hurt her feet. It was warm and cozy here – she was bundled up in a blanket, still wrapped in his too-big clothes that smelled exactly like he did – and she was tired. She felt as if she’d been awake for a month. Her limbs ached.

If Auruo wanted her to leave, he gave no sign. He gently pushed her aside when she tried to do the dishes, and after a brief squabble they worked out a compromise; she washed, he dried. They spent the afternoon and evening bundled on the couch, arguing about what to watch.

“I’ve been looking forward to watching it all week,” Auruo was saying, gesturing agitatedly with the PS3 remote. “All month. I work hard, I should be able to watch what I want in my own fuckin’ apartment.”

“No war documentaries,” she groaned. “Why not Jazz?”

“Because we’ve seen Jazz like twenty times. Because I have the fuckin’ thing memorized.”

“You do not.” She flapped her hands at him. “How about we compromise.”

“Compromise just means we end up doing what you want and I shut up about what I want.”

“Really.”

He fumed, because he knew it wasn’t true. “What kind of compromise?”

“I’ve had A Very Long Engagement on my queue for like six months and I was planning on watching it this weekend. It’s a war movie, it’s a drama; everyone wins.”

“That’s not a war movie!”

“It is too!”

“I’ve seen it before, and it’s _barely_ a war movie.”

“It’s in French,” she said hopefully.

“That doesn’t mean I’ll like it!”

She adopted a heartbroken expression. “I had such a hard week, Auruo. I worked so hard. My boss yelled at me for nearly an hour Friday. I thought I’d get to go home, soak in a bath, and watch something nice and romantic. Instead I came here and cooked for you and cleaned your disgusting apartment, and that’s all I’ve done the whole weekend.”

“Geez, Petra.”

“I literally _nursed you from the brink of death,”_ she added in a dramatic whisper. “Shouldn’t I get to do at least one thing I wanted this weekend?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Jackson really yell at you for an hour?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “He hated my piece. Said it was amateur.”

Auruo’s expression darkened. “That guy’s such a jackass.” After a pause, he sighed. “Fine, we’ll watch your fuckin’ movie. Compromise, whatever.”

She beamed. “You’re the best.”

“You bet I am,” he muttered, but he couldn’t keep from looking pleased at her words. “You’re gonna cry, though.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, because I know you.”

“You think you do, anyway.”

“No, Petra. I know you.” He was serious. “You cried your eyes out when you dragged me to see Atonement, remember? It’s the same kind of deal here. You’re going to get too invested, and it’ll wreck you.”

She did remember. She’d bawled on his shoulder, completely gutted. If she’d been paying attention and watching critically she would have seen the twist coming, but instead she had been wrapped up in the story, in the happy ending so closely within the characters’ grasp, that the sudden tragic denouement had gone straight through her heart.

But she was stubborn. “I bet it won’t,” she said.

He shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

It started hopefully enough. She steeled herself with every bit of emotional reserve she could manage, determined not to let him be right about this. But somewhere around the second act, she got invested. She saw herself in Mathilde; dogged and stubborn, utterly single-minded about her purpose, her nearly feral desperation to see the man she loved again. She identified with the small bargains Mathilde made with god and the universe. She knew what it was to love someone to the point of stupidity, and what it was to find an odd resolve in it.

And just as Auruo had predicted, because she got invested, the ending gutted her. Her head ached and her limbs ached, and after a weekend of close proximity to this confounding, intoxicating man she was already feeling vulnerable, so she should have known pitting her wills against any romantic drama would be a losing battle. By the time the credits rolled, she had buried her face in Auruo’s shirt, sobbing her heart out.

“Come on,” he said gently, rubbing her back. “That one wasn’t as bad as Atonement.”

“He didn’t even know her,” she wept. “She spent all that time looking for him, and he didn’t even know her.”

“He might, someday.”

“’Might’ isn’t a whole lot to go on.”

He brushed a lock of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear, and she thought her heart might stop. “But even if he doesn’t, he’ll just fall in love with her again,” he said. “That’s the point. That it’s inevitable. Not even the war and all that death could get in the way.”  

She looked up at him, completely at a loss for words. If she’d been in her right mind, she might have teased him about being sick still, because he’d have to be sick to say something so astute, so utterly devoid of the sarcasm and disregard his sentiments were usually draped in. But that was a lie – she knew Auruo was capable of moments of insight and feeling. They were so few and far between that she’d savored them, but now – this was different. This cut too close.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her, frowning.

“I don’t feel well,” she said. It was true, yet such a small part of the truth that for all intents and purposes it had become a lie.

Now it was him pressing the back of his hand to her brow. “You’re probably getting what I got,” he muttered, mashing his lip together – what he often did when furious with himself. “Fuck.”

She tried to get to her feet. “I’m sorry, I’ll just go home—“

“You’re not walking home with the flu,” he said firmly.

“I’ll take a cab,” she said, strung between feeling frantic and weak. “I’ll just get out of your hair.”

“You’re not in my hair,” he said, frowning. “You’re never in my hair.”

She rubbed her aching head. “I just –“

“How about you sleep for a bit, first? You’ll feel better.”

“I’ll feel better if I’m not bugging you anymore.”

“Petra, come on,” he said, and he took her nervous hands. “You took care of me. Let me take care of you.”

It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t fight him, not with his hands wrapped firmly around her own. Not with her heart betraying her in this most essential way.

“All right,” she said in a small voice.

So he did. He wrapped her in a clean blanket and gave her some cold and flu syrup. He logged into her Netflix account and queued up one of the dumb romantic comedies she’d been dying to watch. But instead, she watched him; fussing in the kitchen, trying to make a mug of tea in the microwave. Through heavy eyes, she watched him disappear into his room for a long while before reemerging, hair mused, his expression inexplicably nervous.

“Can you get up?” he asked her, kneeling by the couch.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said drowsily. She was tired – she felt like she could sleep for a few years.

“Come on,” he said. “That couch sucks.”

It did, but it was better than her apartment – immaculate, yet devoid of him. “Better than being alone,” she mumbled.

She saw his hazel eyes widen slightly. Carefully, he took her in his arms blankets and all, so gently it was as if he thought she was made of glass, and he knew how easily he could shatter her. He carried her into his room and tucked her into his bed, which she vaguely noticed wasn’t piled high with the usual garbage.

“Where is everything?” she whispered.

He indicated the pile of books in the corner by his computer. “I’ve been meaning to get another bookshelf anyway,” he said, shrugging. “Just … go to sleep. I’ll take you home tomorrow, if you want.”

She didn’t. She wanted to live here – or somewhere, together. She wanted to stop dancing antagonistic, awkward circles around each other and admit these things that had developed, these truths that had been at once inconvenient and essential. She wanted him to crawl in bed and fold himself around her, wanted to feel his breath on her neck, his hands on her hips, his lips on her skin. She wanted these things so desperately that she no longer knew how to give them voice.

Before she slipped into unconsciousness, she thought she felt something lightly touching her brow, the shadow of fingers brushing her face.

* * *

 

She woke to voices, chills, and a headache. Sunlight streamed in from the window, dappling the floor next to the bed. She noticed a glass of water and a dose of medicine waiting for her on the bedside table. She rubbed her eyes and gratefully drained the glass of water. Auruo must have left it there for her.

“Yeah, uh – Mr. Jackson. Petra’s not going to be in to work for a few days,” Auruo was saying. To her boss! _Shit._

“Because she’s sick. It happens.”

Silence – she could feel Auruo’s temper mounting from here.

“Who am I? Her fuckin’ butler,” he snapped. “Who do you think?”

More silence. “Well, when she wakes up, I’m sure she’ll appreciate your gracious understanding. Uh-huh. Thanks.” A pause. “ _Fuckin’ asshole.”_

And she felt worse this morning, but she couldn’t help but to smile. “Auruo!” she called hoarsely.

He barged into the room a half second later, his eyes wide with worry until he caught sight of her smile. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, a hand to his chest. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. She couldn’t stop smiling.

He knelt at the bedside. “What’re you so happy about?”

“You yelled at my boss,” she said, trying to force herself to stop grinning, but it was impossible. She found it strange that she could feel so ill and tired, and yet so happy at the same time. “I’m just imaging his face.”

“That fucking guy,” Auruo snarled. “He’s like ‘well why can’t she come in? Well who are you?’ Like you went and got the fucking flu just to make his life difficult.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But I figured if I really gave him a piece of my mind, I’d get you fired, and you probably don’t want that.”

“Probably not,” she said, still smiling. And after a moment, he smiled too. “Now what are _you_ so happy about?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly.

“You’re lying,” she said. “Out with it.”

“You have to take your medicine now.” He passed her the little cup, trying to wrestle his adorable grin into submission.

She pushed it away. “I’m not taking anything until you tell me what you’re grinning about.”

“Geez, Petra,” he said, letting his head drop to the mattress in dismay. “Don’t make me lie.”

“You could always tell the truth, you know.”

“Could I?” he said quietly, looking up at her again, and she suddenly felt that this truth was an essential one, another in a long line of truths this weekend had brought to light, and that things would change under the weight of them.

But she wasn’t afraid anymore. She had decided not to be because as he said, it was inevitable. They were inevitable. “You can always tell me the truth,” she told him, and she laced her fingers between his.

He took it as a challenge, and as assurance. “I was thinking you look beautiful,” he said simply. “And it’s not fair because you’re sick and snotty, and people are supposed to look like crap when they’re sick. I sure did. But you don’t.”

She was grinning again; she felt like her heart would burst. “And?”

He shook his head, his cheeks coloring. “Fuck, Petra. I was thinking how much I like seeing you in my bed. How I might be persuaded to use the fuckin’ thing more if you were in it.” He fell silent, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand. “How much I like having you around all the time.”

She was sick and exhausted, and her head felt like a beaten drum, but she couldn’t stop smiling. “Before I kiss you, and I’m going to –“ He perked, smiling so wide she thought it would stop her heart completely –“I have to say something too.”

“Well, hurry it up, then.”

“I was lying. That night.”

He squeezed her hand. “Yeah, I know.”

“You did not.”

“For fuck’s sake, Petra – I did. I know you. How many times do I have to say it?” He scowled at her. “I know you better than I know myself.”

“Well, that’s a sorry state of affairs.”

“God, shut up,” he said. She threw back the covers and he crawled in, and he was kissing her and she was kissing him, and it felt like the beginning.

 


	5. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is an AU spin off of canon, assuming that Auruo and Petra survived the inevitable end of the series.

REWRITE COMING SOON


	6. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty asked for some quick, steamy porn AND I LIVE TO SERVE <3

 

> Petra slips into the closet, pulling the door quickly shut behind her. “We have ten minutes,” she whispers.
> 
> It is too dark to see Auruo's face, but she knows him well enough to know he’s probably grinning his trademark smug grin. “Dunno if that’ll be enough.” 
> 
> "That’s a pretty optimistic assessment of your abilities." 
> 
> His reply is to wrap his arms around her waist and kiss her hard.
> 
> Ten minutes, she thinks, shivering as he trails kisses along the line of her jaw, his lips hot on her neck. She gasps when she feels his teeth graze the sensitive skin there, and in the darkness she thinks he might be smiling as her body comes alive against his — thinks he might have laughed, barely more than a whisper against the crook of her neck. 
> 
> "Hurry up," she moans, writhing against him. This is risky and they could be caught, but she can not stand to wait until tonight — she needs him now.
> 
> “ _Shh.”_
> 
> His desperate hands pulling at her belts, sliding her pants down her hips, careful not to rip anything because they are still on duty and a misplaced button or buckle will be easily noticed. She’ll appreciate this later, but right now all she knows was that he is taking too long, that his hands are not on her bare skin right now, that he is not inside her right this moment, and the absence of him will drive her mad. 
> 
> Nine minutes, she thinks when his hands cover her breasts.
> 
> She is less careful — she unbuckles his belt and pulls him free, and he makes a strangled sound when her hand curls around his erection, stroking once. “Sh-shit,” he gasps.
> 
> "Shh …" she whispers. "Not so loud." 
> 
> "Fuck, Petra …"
> 
> He is not so smug now; he is putty in her hands, and  _god_  — this is how she likes it. 
> 
> Eight minutes.
> 
> His breathing goes ragged as she strokes, teases; she feels his pulse in her palm, thrilling an unsteady, wanting heartbeat. He will lose control in one minute, she knows. He will abandon the game and take her hard against the wall. He will not be able to withstand her, just as she won’t be able to withstand him. 
> 
> His hot breath on her neck. Muscles tight, engaged. His hands sliding up the small stretches of bare skin, the only ones they are bold enough to expose in this unsafe place. When she kisses him hard, he moans, and she thinks she can taste the sound of it on her lips. 
> 
> Seven. 
> 
> He pins her, lifts her. She wraps her legs around his waist, braced against the wall, shivering when hard fingers bite in the muscle of her ass. “Ow,” she squeaks. 
> 
> "S-sorry." She’s got one hand on his cheek, so she feels it when he grimaces. He’s waiting now, trembling hard enough that they both shake. She leans close, until her lips are a mere breath away from his ear.
> 
> "I didn’t say stop." Six minutes, she thinks frantically. "Hurry." 
> 
> And he does — for all his swaggering, he is a gold soldier, and he follows orders. He plunges into her with a hard groan, and god — the sound of him needing, the feel of him insider her, is more than she knows how to survive. He rocks once, and she buries her face into his neck to muffle her whimpering. 
> 
> "F-fuck," he gasps when she rocks back into him.
> 
> Five minutes. They are making too much noise — ragged breathing, punctuated by moans when he hits the right spot, when he kisses her savagely, hard enough to leave marks, when she retaliates by sucking hard on his neck, pulling his hair.
> 
> Four, she thinks through the haze of wanting him. Each thrust drives her back into the wall, and she braces herself against him. They are too loud and too active, and a handful of a brooms next to them topple over with a loud clatter, but she barely notices. All she knows is this — his fingers digging into her flesh, his lips everywhere he can reach, the desperate groan that fills him when he drives especially deep. She will be sore after this, and she doesn’t care.
> 
> "Hurry," she moans. "Oh god—" 
> 
> She loses track of the time when his greedy mouth moves to her neck. She is spiraling higher, growing and shivering, and he knows it — he drives her, pushes her, stroking exactly where he knows she needs it. When she comes, she bites her fist to muffle the long, shuddering moan that will give them away. There is no other way to pass off such a sound
> 
> "You’re so loud," he says against her cheek as she trembles. "You’re so — fuck …" 
> 
> They are pressed brow to brow, his nose digging into her cheek — his wavy hair tickles her forehead each time he thrusts, She is holding him tightly, swallowing the hard cry rising up in her throat, though she thinks she will die from the need of it, from the fierce satisfaction as she feels him come apart beneath her, inside her— his breathing more ragged, his hands more desperate, lapsing into broken, vulgar French —
> 
>  ”Hurry,” she whispers, sliding her hands into his hair, pressing the words into his skin.
> 
> And he does. He can’t help it, neither of them can. He kisses her deeply, and as he comes his moans fill her mouth — too loud, and yet not loud enough. 
> 
> They are breathing hard, thrilling and aching from sated need. They don’t move for a long minute, and she knows he doesn’t want to separate just yet, and she doesn’t either. If they had waited until tonight, they wouldn’t have had to. 
> 
> "You’re too fucking loud," he finally says, lips at the corner of her mouth, his voice trembling. 
> 
> "You’re the one that knocked over the brooms." 
> 
> "No I didn’t." 
> 
> She grins, shaking in his arms. “Yeah you did. Thrusting away like a savage.” 
> 
> She thinks that he might be grinning too. “You like it that way.” 


	7. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PETRUO WEEK DAY 1 --SPRING CLEANING

For most people, spring brought with it a desire to organize, to purge the clutter from one’s life; all within reason. For Captain Levi, it inspired a compulsion that Auruo frankly found pathological.

This insane compulsion began with a bit of cruelty Auruo hasn’t experienced since his training days; Levi banged on their bedroom doors at least three hours before first call and barked for them all to get in the hallway ASA-fucking-P.

Petra stirred at his side, her short copper hair tickling his bare chest. “Whazzat?” she mumbled sleepily.

“It’s Captain!” Auruo hissed. “Shit!”

Instantly, Petra was awake. “Shit!” she echoed– a rare curse -- and responded further by shoving Auruo out of bed. He sprawled naked on the cold floor.

“What the fuck --!?”

She flapped her hands at him. “Put on your pants!”

“For fuck’s sake –“

“ _Do it!”_

He scowled up at her. “You’re wearing my shirt!”

She ripped it off and threw it into his face before vaulting out of bed, and he couldn’t even properly enjoy the sight of her breasts bouncing as she zipped around the room. They dressed as quickly as possible; she buttoned his shirt, he helped her into her jacket, and they both contended with the various straps that made their uniforms such a challenge. She ground her teeth together when he fumbled with his cravat, typing it sloppily around his neck.

“Can you leave the stupid cravat for one day?”

“Like hell, nag.”

Auruo slipped out into the hallway behind Petra, hoping that maybe Levi had gone around the corner and they could be spared the indignity (and inconvenience) of alerting their respected Captain to the nature of their relationship, but to his dismay Levi was standing right outside Petra’s door with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, wearing one of the most impressive scowls Auruo had ever seen.

“Sir,” Auruo muttered, Petra echoing him.

“Thanks for joining us,” Levi said in a perfect deadpan.

Auruo forced himself to stare straight ahead, though at the moment he’d rather the stone floor crack open and swallow him whole. _God, kill me._

“As of this moment, your other duties are put on hold. You’re to clean.”

“What do you want us to clean, sir?” Petra asked, her voice small.

“Everything. And until I say differently. It reeks of filth in this whole wing, and it’s disgusting. Get rid of your crap. Get rid of shit you don’t need. I want this part of the castle fit to be lived in by humans, and not animals. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” the four of them echoed.

“Good. Start now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Auruo wouldn’t exactly call Levi’s expression satisfied, since he didn’t think anything really satisfied Levi anymore, but he nodded. Petra waited until he’d rounded the corner before burying her face in her hands.

“Looks like the jig is up,” Erd said to them – and even at four in the morning, he could summon the shrewdest grin Auruo had ever seen. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

“Erd, don’t tease them,” Gunther admonished.

“That’s right, you asshole,” Auruo snapped.

“Captain already knew, anyway,” Gunther said with a shrug.

“Wonderful,” Petra moaned. “Fantastic.”

Auruo figured her dismay at being discovered made sense; in her shoes, he wouldn’t be pleased that their Captain knew he was fucking someone as unpleasant and annoying and ugly as himself. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

* * *

 

Levi was as good as his word. He insisted that they spend whatever idle hours they were awake cleaning for the next week at least, and being that Levi was their Captain, not to mention Humanity’s Strongest, and Shining Star of the Survey Corps (or whatever else they called him in the districts these days), they were compelled to obey him.

He and Petra had been scrubbing the floors of the mess hall the whole morning, and since the mess hall could comfortably fit the entire Survey Corps, it was a considerable undertaking. The sun had reached its highest point in the sky, sunlight streaming down from the high windows, when he sighed and curled over, pressing his forehead to the stone. Petra clicked her tongue. “You’re overreacting,” she said, arching a brow.

“How the fuck am I overreacting? I was just breathing.” He grinned over at her. “Are you telling me that I can’t even breathe without it being some dramatic statement now?”

“It is when you do it,” she shot back. “Stop huffing because you’re slightly uncomfortable.”

“’Slightly uncomfortable’? My knees are fuckin’ killing me.”

“Right,” she said, scrubbing harder.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Usually by this time she’d crack a smile at his carrying on, because he was ridiculous and for some reason she seemed to like it (most of the time, anyway). But her expression was stony, and there was no trace of light or amusement anywhere on her features. She scrubbed at a particularly difficult patch of grime, and at that moment that she had never seemed so remote, so untouchable, not in all the years they’d known one another. He fell silent and resumed his scrubbing because he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make the situation worse.

She was angry with him. That had to be it. He kept telling himself that it made sense, that she was a professional and dutiful person, and the last thing she wanted Captain Levi to think was that she didn’t take her devotion to the Survey Corps seriously, and was instead more interested in flouting the rules and screwing around off hours. Nothing could be further from the truth, in Auruo’s opinion, and that they happened to be sleeping together had nothing to do with the strength of her devotion. But the fact of the matter was that he’d made a habit of sneaking into her room, and so their situation was his fault. He got it, really.

“When do you think Captain will let up with this whole thing?” he asked after a long while, stretching to ease a cramp in his back.

Petra shrugged. “Who knows. He was like this last year too, remember?”

“No.” Auruo hadn’t noticed, and he didn’t know how he felt about Petra noticing. “Why’s it so important to do during springtime, though?”

She wrung out her washrag. “Everything is new,” she said. “Everything’s green again, all this fresh life everywhere. Maybe it gets people thinking about starting over. Out with the old, in with the new. It just feels right to get rid of old junk when that’s what nature is doing too. Don’t you think?”

“No,” he said, inexplicably irritated. “I don’t.”

“Well, you asked.”

He bit back a retort – _just ‘cause I ask doesn’t mean I have to like the answer._ He had no idea what it was specifically that irritated him so much, only that it made him suspicious and insecure, and inspired a tense, hard knot in his gut. It inadvertently confirmed something he’d been afraid of for a long time.

They did not speak for the rest of the day. And when night fell, he trudged to his own room, slipped out of his uniform and crawled into his bed, which he hadn’t used in months. He didn’t sleep; instead he watched pale shadows shift on the ceiling, listened to the sounds of tree branches swaying in the wind. Some small, stupid corner of his heart hoped that maybe she’d seek him out, as unable to sleep without him as he was without her. But night passed into early morning, and there was no sign of Petra.

* * *

 

Auruo had never cleaned so much in his life, and he’d been a direct subordinate of Levi’s for almost a year. That week he scrubbed every inch of his room, then the hallways. He swept and dusted and polished until his hands were chapped and his eyes were raw from the dust. He cleaned so much that when he managed to fall asleep (still alone), he even dreamed about it.

He couldn’t remember the last time he was this miserable.

Training, maybe – he’d earned the ire of the Commandant for having a smart mouth and little sense (understandably). Or maybe their first days as Survey Corps soldiers. But even then, he’d been able to rely on Petra’s presence, her easy smile whenever he said or did something ridiculous, the way it felt when she’d reach for his hand, squeezing once. Her coy grin when she’d pull him aside and press her lips to the corner of his mouth.

Now, they barely spoke. She was polite to him in the hallway but she did not seek him out, and when he managed to catch her eye, her gaze was as remote as the night sky, cold and impossible to reach.  He’d wanted to ask her what he’d done wrong, but every time he opened his mouth he’d freeze, gaping stupidly before grinding his teeth together and hurrying away. He couldn’t find the words. He figured he knew, anyway.

 _It makes sense,_ he told himself. _Inevitable. This wasn’t an ‘if’ but a ‘when’._

“Haven’t seen you and Petra together in quite a while,” Erd said to him one morning.

Auruo shrugged. “Her loss,” he said with a careless smirk, like it was no skin off his nose, like he couldn’t give two shits. He didn’t know what the funnier joke was: that he didn’t care, or that she was the one who’d come out wanting in this whole scenario. _Funny either way._

In the interest of fulfilling Captain Levi’s directive to get rid of the piles of garbage he’d accumulated over the years, he excused himself to his room and sorted through his few belongings. It was easy enough at first; he cleared out dozens of pencil nubs in his desk drawer, papers he’d ruined and crumpled in a pique of temper then forgotten to throw out. He was forced to acknowledge that spring cleaning was probably a good idea for someone like him. He kept everything, an instinct he probably acquired from being dirt poor all his life– you never knew when you’d need something again.

But when he got to his box, the whole fucking thing got difficult.

It was a dilapidated hatbox that his mother had given him for the express purpose of keeping his important things together. And by all accounts, the important things he’d kept over the years were garbage. The worn hilt of a knife he’d only been able to use once. A broken pocketwatch that had been his granddad’s. Stacks of old letters. A portrait of his family (one that didn’t include him). And a sketch Moblit had done of Petra.

He peered closer at the sketch. She was laughing at something; he’d forgotten what. She was looking over her shoulder, laughing – and he knew you couldn’t capture a laugh in a picture but Moblit almost had; he could almost hear the sound of it, looking at that piece of paper. Her eyes were crinkled at the corners and she was flushed and pretty, like she just heard the funniest thing, like she's only ever laughed in her life.

Scowling, he stuffed the drawing back into the hatbox and shoved it under his bed. It maybe be garbage, but it was _his_ garbage, and he wasn’t going to throw it all away just for the sake of some bullshit platitudes about _starting fresh_ and _getting rid of the old._ That’s what irritated him – the assumption that old was bad and should be purged.

The sound of her laughter floated through his open window, and for a second he thought he’d been imagining it again. He peered down into the yard and saw Petra, her coat off, sleeves rolled up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. She lightly touched Gunther’s arm as she laughed. _Right,_ he thought, something hard curling in his gut. _It makes sense._

He closed the window.

* * *

 

That probably would have been the end of it, had Petra not broken first. Auruo was stubborn, oversensitive, and could carry a grudge like he’d been born to it. He’d have gone the rest of their lives bristling when she passed, lapsing between resigned acceptance and bitterness, and all the while missing her so badly that he could hardly express the contents of his walnut brain. He wasn’t fucking perfect; not even close. Wasn’t that the point?

She found him tearing through his already immaculate room, circling that goddamn box of garbage he couldn’t bring himself to throw away. “Auruo?”

He spun, nerves clanging. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, clutching his chest. He didn’t know why she was here now, what she could possibly want with him after a week of letting him stew in his own neuroses. “What the fuck do you want?”

She recoiled like he’d slapped her, and that was the first indication Auruo got that he might have missed something. She steeled herself, jammed her hands on hips. Nag mode, but her lip trembled slightly. “I want to know why you’ve been avoiding me.”

 _“I’ve_ been avoiding _you?”_

“You haven’t come to my room for a week.”

“You haven’t come to mine either!”

Inexplicably, her cheeks flushed. “I thought you might not want to see me.”

“Yeah, _exactly.”_

“Which is why I’m here. Asking you why you’ve been avoiding me.”

He wasn’t aware he’d been doing anything of the kind. And if he had, it’d been because she’d acted cold, distant – because he’d assumed he’d finally fucked up beyond recovery, and the expiration date on their relationship, the moment when she’d get irrevocably sick of his bullshit, was at hand. And it was wrapped up in a thousand other worries, in that stupid box at his feet, full of garbage he wanted to keep because it was _his,_ because the old in his life was good – fuck, it was perfect, and there was no way to improve on it, not when it so heavily featured her.

“You – you kept talkin’ about this whole out with the old thing,” he stammered, desperately wishing that he could be cool about this, that he could act like nothing really mattered to him but his kill count, because how easy that life would have been. “I thought you were talkin’ about me.”

“ _What?”_

“Are you deaf? I said I thought you were talkin’ about me! This whole – this whole fuckin’ thing about getting rid of the old crap, and meanwhile you couldn’t even look at me, you’re acting like – like it’s some big fuckin’ tragedy Captain figured out about us, and – well what the fuck was I supposed to think, huh? I think it anyway, whether you’re acting like I’m a big embarrassment or not. _It makes sense, all right?!”_

“What does that even mean?!”

“It means you’re you! You’re – fuck. You’re just _you_. You’re – you’re fucking better. Better than me for sure, and better than anyone. And I’m not going to argue with you on that either, okay? You just are, it’s a fact. And I’m – I’m a fuckin’ embarrassment.”

As he watched, the hard lines of her softened, the stony expression fading into one that he lived for, something almost tender. “Oh, Auruo.”

“Don’t fuckin’ ‘oh, Auruo,’ me. Don’t act like this is just me being a stupid fuckin’ asshole again.”

“Well …”

“Don’t you even -- ! You – why would you – I mean you barely spoke to me! You acted like I was –“

“Auruo,” she said, taking his anxious hands. “I was tired. I was _exhausted._ We were up almost that whole night, remember?” A small smile. “Not like I’m going to kick you when you’re down or anything, but you might have been overreacting. Again.”

“I swear to god—“ he spluttered, halfway caught between irritation and relief so acute it made him dizzy. “I fuckin’ swear to god, you –“

Before he could say another word, she kissed him hard, framing his face with her hands, and god – he thought he’d never be able to do this again, and she was just as soft as he remembered, just as beautiful. And he couldn’t breathe or speak or think about anything except her – kissing him like somehow he was all she wanted.

“Let me say this, okay?” she said when she broke away. “You’re not an embarrassment to me. I’m not ashamed of you. I was embarrassed, but not _of you._ I don’t even understand how you could get that idea.”

“It’s not anything you did. I guess,” he managed, because she’d wrapped her arms around his neck, and she was close enough that he could count those nearly faded freckles on her nose. His felt himself blush –flustered by her attention, embarrassed to have made such a big deal over something that had been so completely wrong.

Her eyes softened. “When is going to sink in that I’m not going anywhere, Auruo?”

“When it starts making sense that you wouldn’t,” he muttered to his feet.

“The sooner you stop thinking like that, the sooner stuff like this doesn’t happen anymore.”

“How is this all on me?!” he demanded. “You know, Petra, you’re the one who avoided me for a week before you decided to drop by and clear things up. Don’t let me off the hook or anything! Just let me stew until it’s convenient.”

She flushed. “I thought you were angry with me! Like really angry, not just your usual grumping. I’m sorry I didn’t want to rush into a confrontation I knew I wasn’t going to like.”

“You knew, huh? How’s that working out for you? This the big explosion you were expecting?” He stared down at her – not too charmed to be incredulous. “And since when have you ever backed down from a fight?”

“Contrary to what you think, I don’t go around indiscriminately biting off heads. Sometimes the thought of fighting with someone does _not_ fill me with anticipation.” She scowled at him. “Especially if I like that person.”

“And you like me, huh?”

“Yes,” she said, biting her lip. “I do. Not even against my better judgment. I like you and I’m not getting rid of you. I hope you’re not getting rid of me.”

He pulled her into his arms and after a moment she eased into his embrace, gripping his shirt tightly, as if afraid to let him go. And he figured they were both a little ridiculous, both a little oversensitive and prone to overreaction, but as long as they could figure this out as they went along, it would be all right. He couldn’t think of anything cool or sarcastic to say, so instead he spoke the truth: “Never.”


	8. squad levi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just something small I wrote for my good friend Leonimum!

Let’s set the scene. 

Survey Corps. Dining Hall. Breakfast at 0600. The new recruits cluster at the edges of the room, looking for a safe place to eat. They are easily distinguished from the vets, who contemplate and consume their meals with reserve. But none more so than the veterans at the back corner.

They are different. 

"Who’re they?" asks one recruit.

"That’s Squad Levi," says another — more knowledgeable, with his ear to the ground. He’s picked up rumors and whispers, and noticed the reputation that surrounds these four soldiers, a reputation that is as varied as it is ironclad. 

"I heard they’ve killed more than 200 Titans between them," whispers one. 

"I heard the woman’s killed more total than the rest." 

"Yeah, but that mean looking one’s killed more solo. Second to Levi." 

"No, that’s the blonde one. He’s second-in command." 

"What about the big scary one? He looks like he could kill a Titan just by looking at it." 

The whispers continue. By the time the recruits find a seat, these four veterans seem to be more like giants than people — made terrifying by the storied nature of their careers and by the glares the ‘mean one’ shoots their way when they dare wander too close to their table. 

"Auruo," chides the woman. 

The mean one’s colorful reply is lost in the din of the dining hall, but the words 'fuckin' brats' can be heard. 

The recruits leave, and Squad Levi resumes their meal. Elite, unapproachable. Then: 

Blond one: “Auruo.”  
Mean one: “What.”  
Blond one: “Auruo.”  
Mean one: "WHAT." 

The blonde one waggles his spoon with a showy flair, then, while everyone watches, balances it atop his thin nose. Scary one ducks his head to hide a gentle smile, one that the woman mirrors. Mean one is stone faced, determined not to laugh. He nearly succeeds until the blond hums a badly pitched tune, complete with patter. 

The spoon slides from his nose and lands in his bowl of mush, and the four watch with comical enrapture as a glob leaps from the bowl, sails across the table in a graceful arc, to splatter on the mean one’s cravat. 

Mean one: “You fuckin’ clod!” But when the rest giggle behind their hands, he lets out a grudging laugh. Whips off the cravat with irritated bluster, which is quickly seen as more an affectation than anything. “You better clean this shit.” 

Blond, silly one: “Like hell.”


	9. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another something small I wrote for Grim, my darling mainverse <3

He plans it perfectly.

He knows her well enough to do so — how she will react when he puts his hand on her waist, when he presses her close, knows that exact hitch of breath as she comes undone under his lips. The problem, though, is how it affects him. 

So he plans. He’s going to keep his head this time, and she’s going to be the one falling to pieces. It’s only fucking fair, since every time she gently presses her lips to his, he has a cardiac event. 

There’s a tally somewhere, and it probably reads: 

Petra Ral: 5,609 

Auruo Bossard: 3

Well, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least get his tally up to four. 

He’s waiting when she sneaks into his room for the night, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms in a very disinterested, disaffected way. Hilarious — he’s anything but. Her eyes widen slightly when she catches sight of him. "Auruo? What—?"

He puts a finger to his lips, catches her by the wrist and gently pulls her close. And here is the first assault to his control; she molds herself against him, one leg nestling between his, hips flush. And going by her coy little smile, she knows exactly what that does to him. 

Gently, he tips her face up, thumb caught under her chin — lightly enough to be a suggestion, one that she can choose not to follow. But she does, and god — he’s this close to losing it completely.

So because it’s practically a lost cause, because everything she does and everything she says and the completeness of her is far too much for him, he cups her face and brings his lips to hers. And there’s that hitch of breath he knew to expect, but it undoes him anyway.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of space, there’s a scoreboard that bestows another notch under Petra’s name. And he decides that he doesn’t care — that he should be so lucky to lose to her for the rest of his life, because it isn’t losing at all.


	10. petruo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small fill/starter I wrote on my RP blog.

_**A**_ s she leans close, bright auburn hair spills across her shoulders; sun caught, spun copper. It’s an unbearably unguarded gesture, one that such a powerful woman would not chance with anyone but the hand at her back, and it summons a hard lump in his throat. 

Thoughtful amber eyes regard him, tempered with steel:  _Do_ _you think anything interesting will happen today?_

_~_

_**"** Where is he?"_  _Auruo asks the kid. Brisk. Impatient, to a lesser observer. He shucks his jacket and rolls his shirtsleeves to his elbow, an unlit cigarette clamped between his lips. And, with exacting motions, snaps a pair of gloves over his hands._

_"In the basement. There’s a big freezer down there."_

_"You touch him bare-handed?"_

_The kid arches an incredulous eyebrow; bristling with offense. “I know better than that.”_

_" You fuckin’ better."_

_Auruo lights his cigarette and descends into the basement with the kid dogging his heels, his barely restrained curiosity mucking up the somber event— a most bloodthirsty strain. For in the bowels of this nondescript deli waits the stiffening corpse of a man in his late thirties. Dark hair dusts an ashen forehead, and dark brown eyes stare straight up and ahead. He could be merely startled, so clean is this kill — a single neat shot to the center of his forehead. Of course, turn him over and the back of his head is a fucking mess._

_"You responsible for this?" Auruo asks as the kid hefts him on a metal table._

_"Sure am." The kid doesn’t even bother to mask his pride._

_"Don’t sound so thrilled with yourself," Auruo snaps. “You’re killin’ people, not curin’ goddamn cancer.”_

_Before the kid can retort, Auruo slips his phone out of his pocket and queues up some music; he gives no sign to whether he enjoys this work or not, but this is his only concession. And as the strains of a lush,  delicate melody fill the air, Auruo selects a pair of pliers from table and, one by one, removes the dead man’s teeth._

_"What the fuck is this shit?" the kid asks._

_"It’s from[Cavalleria Rusticana](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BIQ2D6AIys8), you hick.” Auruo takes a drag on his cigarette, exhales out the corner of his mouth. Lit embers dance between his eyes. "If you can’t improve the music, shut the fuck up."_

_The kid takes this to heart, watching as Auruo methodically relieves the dead man of his identifying features. It’s a careful business — rush through it, leave something behind, and you leave a trail for the cops to find._

_The strings swell, and the dead man gapes toothlessly at them from the table, legs curled awkwardly to the side. He has a mole under his eye. A few years ago, Auruo might have fixated on that mole; thought about how kids probably teased him for it when he was young, and later if he was lucky, a woman might have kissed it in the throes of lovemaking. Now, he notes it and moves on. He’ll burn it off before they dump him. Otherwise, it’s not relevant._

_"Hey … Bossard."_

_Auruo moves from teeth to fingers, cutting them off at the first knuckle."Mm?"_

_"What’d this guy do, anyway?"_

_The music bears them upward on a mighty crescendo, so much like amber sunlight — like her hair. Pliers cut, bone snaps, and above it the orchestra sings a sweet song. And as he mutilates the corpse of this hated stranger, he thinks of her — the reason he does this, the reason he’s still here and alive, with the option to give a shit about things._

_"He got too close," is Auruo’s curt answer, and the pliers snap shut._

_~_

_Do you think anything interesting will happen today?_

Amber eyes hood as she waits for him to speak, slim fingers curling on the edge of her desk. But it’s a question that almost does not deserve an answer. His life is unbearably interesting. This morning at 3am he dumped a toothless, fingerless corpse in the ocean. Later today he’ll oversee a particularly sensitive deal that will ensure the Ral family’s dominance. And every moment beyond, he’ll stand at her back and watch for trouble, for the slightest twitch of threat, his heart beating somewhere in his throat. 

But he shoots her a grin. "Nah."

_Not if I have anything to say about it._


	11. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by Petora: During an afternoon visit to Mr. Ral's, things get heated.

“This is a bad idea,” Auruo grumbled.

With a small smile, Petra smoothed his shirt and straightened his collar, her small hands flat against his chest. “Stop being a child.”

“You’re the child.”

She didn’t acknowledge the weak retort. “It’s just for an afternoon, okay? We’ll go to your house next.”

As far as Auruo was concerned, it was an afternoon a few hours too long. He and Mr. Ral were not exactly on the best of terms. In fact, this was putting it lightly; they argued almost every time they were confronted with one another, and it was an experience Auruo had no desire to repeat today, on one of their extremely infrequent furloughs. “Your dad’s more than capable of making trouble in the span of an afternoon,” Auruo muttered peevishly.

“He’s not exactly alone in that,” Petra fired back. “You’re both terrible. But you have to get along today.”

“Why?!”

She looked up at him with wide amber eyes and batted her long, ginger lashes, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. “Because I’m asking you nicely.”

He swallowed. “This sure don’t sound like a nice request.”

They were in civilian clothes, so there was no reason for her to use more subtle means. She drew close, so close that they nearly touched, and pressed her hands flat against his chest, her fingers then curling in his fastidiously ironed shirt. “Please, Auruo?”

He resisted only through stubborn spite. “Why’s this on me, Petra? He’s the one that starts things! He hates my fuckin’ guts!”

With a small sigh, she withdrew her hands and smoothed her long skirt over her hips, and he tried to ignore this –the spread of her fingers, and the smooth skin he knew lay beneath. “He does not.”

“Last time he insinuated I’d do more good with my innards decorating some Titan’s teeth, remember?”

“Yes, I do,” Petra retorted, sounding upset, “and if you remember I had some words for him about that. Please, just … keep the peace on your end. And I’ll worry about my father.”

He knew he was being childish, and he knew that his carrying on was making this admittedly stressful situation a thousand times worse for her, so he resolved to be less of an asshole about it. “Yeah, fine,” he capitulated. “I’ll be nice.”

She arched a brow.

“As nice as I can be, anyway,” he sighed. “Geez, nag. Have a little faith in me, huh?”

“I have nothing _but_ faith in you,” she told him, and after a moment she smiled, reaching for his hand and twining their fingers together. “I really do.”

It always knocked him on his ass when she did that; when she took some shitty evasion of his and turned it right around into something sincere, something honest. At these times he could only stare; he would never understand or be able to emulate her command of her emotional landscape, the ease in which she felt things and communicated them to others. Not for lack of trying, at times, but there it was. “Geez,” he muttered.

She tugged gently on his hand. “Come on. It won’t be that bad.”

“You always say that, and every time it’s that bad and worse.”

“That’s an exaggeration.” She pulled him along, and they moved quickly through the midday crowd. “He loves me and because he loves me he’ll tolerate you. And – you know? It’s the same for you. You love me and you’ll tolerate him because you love me.” She beamed. “It’ll be fine.”

He admired her capacity for hope, but sometimes there was no amount of wishful thinking that could shine a pile of shit. But because he loved her, he decided to keep these sentiments to himself. “Yeah, yeah … alright.”

“Besides, we need to tell him sooner or later.”

Auruo blanched. “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?!”

“I mean no fuckin’ way!”

“He’s going to keep nattering on about Levi, then.”

“Good! Let him! God damn, let him keep writing that shit, I don’t care! I – I’m not gonna –“

She slowed to a stop, and looked up at him with huge, hurt eyes. “You don’t want him to know about us?”

“It’s not going to make anything better,” Auruo said with a nervous shrug, attempting to play it off. “It’s not like telling him is going to make him change his mind about me.”

“It might.”

He couldn’t help fixing her with a skeptically arched brow. “Your dad’s known me as long as you’ve known me, and still hasn’t changed his mind. Why would this make any goddamn difference at all?”

Auruo recognized full well the stubborn set of her jaw, and her grip on his fingers tightened with resolve. “It might,” she said shortly, and he knew that was the end of that.

“Alright, nag.”

“Also don’t call me nag in front of him.”

“Wh—ugh. How ‘bout I just not say anything at all? I’ll just speak when I’m spoken too like a good little brat, huh?”

She either missed the sarcasm or chose to ignore it entirely. “That might be a good idea. At first, anyway! Come on.” She tugged his hand, squeezing once, and with another irritated sigh he followed her lead.

He was not looking forward to this. If it’d been up to him they’d spend the day walking through the city with her hand in his, moving at a leisurely, obnoxious pace, taking in the sights and smells of their familiar home as the bustle of Karanese bore them along. Or, even better, they’d spend the whole day tangled in bed, making love at their leisure, talking about whatever they wanted, without having to subvert either their words or the impulse to touch.

Of course, he wouldn’t get to do any of this until they returned to headquarters. The irony was not lost on him.

They ascended the stoop, and Petra knocked lightly on her front door, which he found a little sad; when he came home, he usually barged right in. He’d probably be laughed out of his own fucking home if he knocked – ‘What? You a stranger?’ his mom would bark with a laugh. It was different in the Ral’s somewhat nicer neighborhood, where most of the merchants lived.

After a moment Mr. Ral answered the door, and he smiled wide when he caught sight of Petra. “Sunshine,” he beamed, wrapping her tightly in his arms, an embrace that Petra wholeheartedly returned.

“Dad,” she admonished gently. “Don’t call me that.”

“Right, I’m sorry. I’m so happy to see you.”

They broke apart, and only then did Mr. Ral’s gaze drift away from his daughter. Brows knit, eyes narrowed, and the easy smile on his face twisted into a scowl. “Auruo,” he said curtly.

Auruo tried to keep his own expression neutral and failed miserably; already his temper mounted. “Mr. Ral.”

This was probably as polite as either of them could be with one another, and Petra knew it; gently, she steered her father into their home, Auruo following a safe distance behind.

He was moderately familiar with the Ral home, but nowhere near as familiar as Petra was with the Bossard home, being that she’d spent most of her free time there when they’d been children. But it was just as Auruo remembered – too clean, too big for one person, too empty. He knew his experience had made him biased, but no home felt right without lots of people and noise, without a few squabbling brats in the corner, and always a pot of something cooking on the stove.

“How long do you have?” Mr. Ral was asking as they took a seat in the living room. Auruo plopped on the couch, and Petra sat gracefully beside him, at a distance far closer than Auruo thought she would risk in front of her father. Sure enough, Mr. Ral’s eyes narrowed at the sight.

“Just the afternoon,” Petra said with a sad smile. “We have to prepare for an expedition in a few days.”

“Didn’t you only just come back from one?”

“It was three weeks ago,” Petra explained. “So pretty average, as far as time in between goes.”

“Hm…” Mr. Ral did not look pleased, and despite Auruo’s general dislike of the man, he could understand this. He wasn’t so keen on the timeline either. “What kind, do you know?”

“Resources,” Petra answered. “Pretty average in that regard too.”

“I meant what will your squad be doing?”

“We’re not supposed to talk about logistics with civilians,” Auruo interjected, annoyed.

“And besides, we don’t really know yet,” Petra added hastily. “We’ll get our assignment in a few days.”

Mr. Ral fixed Auruo with a hard stare. “Not even with family?”

“Dad,” Petra said gently. “He is right, you know.”

It wasn’t the most uncomfortable silence Auruo had ever suffered in his life, but it came pretty fucking close. Auruo busied himself with a fraying thread on his cuff and resolved to do better at keeping his mouth shut.

“How is Levi?” Mr. Ral asked. His tone made Auruo suspicious; overly attentive, as if the previous moment had not even happened. And Auruo had been privy to enough of Mr. Ral’s letters and lectures to know where this was going.

“Captain Levi is fine,” Petra corrected carefully. “You know. Quiet as ever. Inscrutable.”

“He really is a great man,” Mr. Ral said. “You know they talk about him around here.”

“Do they?”

Mr. Ral nodded, taking a polite sip of tea. “Did you know they call him ‘Humanity’s Strongest Solider’? It’s appropriate, don’t you think?”

“I’d heard that,” Petra said. “I was under the impression that he wasn’t exactly beloved, though. Because of the general feeling about the Survey Corps.”

“Oh, not at all. It’s all very positive talk about Humanity’s Strongest and his squad of elites, at least from what I hear.”

Auruo knew he should keep his mouth shut, but the retort bubbled past this lips before he could swallow it. “Yeah, why would anyone talk shit about us to you? You know, since everyone and their fuckin’ dog knows you got a daughter in that elite squad and all. Just beggars belief.”

It was a fair point, and entirely inappropriate. Mr. Ral chose to ignore it, which deepened Auruo’s suspicion. “Anyway, yes. That Levi is really a remarkable man. They say he’s killed more titans than anyone.”

“We don’t really know how many he’s killed,” Petra said. “He doesn’t keep track.”

“Really? That’s very humble, don’t you think?”

Auruo scowled; everyone in the room knew full well of his obsession with counting his kills. Mr. Ral wrote the practice off as boastful, and that served Auruo’s purposes well enough, so he never bothered to correct him, or anyone else who made the same error. Besides, the real reason was fairly pathetic, and wouldn’t serve Auruo’s carefully cultivated reputation.

Petra, for her part, looked uncomfortable with the direction this conversation had taken. “Humble? I – I suppose. I hadn’t really thought of it that way.”

“I think it is,” Mr. Ral insisted. “To be that skilled and so secure in your skill that you don’t beat everyone over the head with it. That takes a special kind of man, I’d say.”

“He’s not making a statement, Dad,” Petra argued. “I just think he doesn’t care.”

“Regardless, he’s a good man. I’m glad you spend so much time with him.”

Petra shrugged. “I mean, he’s my Captain. We all do.” She smiled at Auruo. “Tell Dad about the work you did with Captain this last Monday. You know, on the course?”

Auruo would rather pry out his teeth one by one. “We, uh. Did some work. On the course.” Pause. “On Monday.”

“Fascinating,” said Mr. Ral, sounding anything but fascinated.

“Auruo,” Petra admonished quietly. “Tell him about the maneuver.”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to discuss logistics.”

“3DMG maneuvers aren’t the same thing as expedition logistics,” Auruo snapped, swallowing the insult he was dying to throw in this unbelievable disagreeable asshole’s face. “It’s hard to explain.”

“I expect most things are for you,” Mr. Ral said neutrally.

“ _Dad.”_

He was aware he was being successfully goaded, and at the moment he didn’t care. “It’s a lateral shift and reverse, with a hard bank. You gotta grapple a broadside just when you start to fall, and kinda shift your weight around from hip to hip, otherwise you tangle up and smash into something.” His hands twitched for his gear; aching for the weight of the hilts in his hands. “It’s pretty complicated. Not everyone can do it.”

Mr. Ral did not seem impressed. “It’s good of your Captain to take an interest in his less skilled subordinates.”

“Alright, you know what--?!”

“Dad, that’s not --!”

They were saved from argument by the most fortuitously timed interruption ever recorded; this one in the form of a volley of insistent knocking on the front door. Mr. Ral scowled, Auruo scowled; they might have gone on staring daggers at each other until the end of the world, but after a moment Mr. Ral heaved a sigh and got to his feet, striding quickly toward the door.

While Mr. Ral conferred with the stranger on the stoop, Petra jabbed Auruo in the ribs. “Could you be any more antagonistic?!” she hissed.

“I’m sorry!” he hissed back. “Fuck! He just won’t let up.”

“You have better self-control than that.”

“Are you sure?! I’m not so sure!”

“You could if you wanted to.”

Auruo would have retorted if Mr. Ral had not chosen that moment to interrupt. “I have to run to the shop for a bit. I won’t be long,” he said, expression pinched. The words came out less like reassurance and more like a threat.

It was terrible to think this, and Auruo was probably letting his own stewing temper color his perception, but Petra seemed far more relieved with this development than normal. “Okay, Dad! See you soon!”

Mr. Ral stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. They waited in silence until they could no longer hear the sound of his irritated footfalls on the cobblestones before relaxing. Auruo flopped back on the couch with a heavy sigh, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Fuckin’ hell. Your dad…”

“He’s upset that I brought you here,” Petra said, crawling on top of him.

He froze. “What’re you doing?”

“Sitting on your lap,” she said, wiggling a bit for emphasis. “I like sitting on your lap.”

“Your dad could come back any minute.”

Petra rolled her eyes. “He’s going to be gone awhile.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Are you scared, Auruo?”

“No!” He scowled up at her beautiful face, and tried to ignore the suddenly irregular heartbeat in the vicinity of his stomach. “Why’s he so pissed off today in particular?”

“Oh, that. I think he wanted some time with just the two of us.”

“Why the fuck did you insist on bringing me over, then? God, no wonder he’s got such a bug up his ass.”

She shifted, and he tried not to notice. “Because I want you two to learn how to get along. Nothing would make me happier, in fact.”

“I’m trying, dammit,” Auruo said. “I mean … I am! Look, I know I got a temper, and it’s – when he says this stupid shit, trying to get under my skin, I lose it. And I’m sorry. I’m –“

“I know,” she said softly, pushing back an errant curl of hair against his brow. “I know, Auruo.”

Slowly, he threaded his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, his hands a safe distance away from her rear. “Okay.” Swallowed. “Good.”

“Did you hear him going on and on about Levi?” Petra said, slowly shaking her head. “It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“I don’t know what he wanted. For me to argue? Fuck; I know Levi’s better than me. I know it better than anyone. I mean, why the fuck do you think I –?” He trailed off, coloring. “Anyway. He’s not going to get an argument from me on that one.”

“I think you’re better than Levi,” Petra said, peering down at him, her thumb skimming his lips.

Auruo laughed mirthlessly. “Is that right, huh?”

“Don’t give me your snotty asshole laugh; it’s true.”

“It’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“ _No it’s not.”_

_“YES IT IS.”_

“How exactly am I better than Humanity’s Strongest? Go on; I’m dying to hear your rationale.”

“I’m trying to give you a compliment, and tell you something I earnestly believe,” she shot back. “There’s no need to be a jerk about it.”

“Fine, I’m sorry. I’m still curious.”

Petra took a breath, tapped her chin. “Well, he is better at killing Titans than you.”

Auruo shot her a cocky grin. “He’s is for now, at least.”

“That’s right, I remember. ‘Just watch; in a few years I’ll have killed more than Levi.’ Except how will you know if you’ve killed more, since he doesn’t keep track?”

“Say I kill a thousand titans – there’s no way Levi’s killed that many. Then we’ll know.”

“There’s no way you’ll be able to kill that many solo either!” Petra said, her voice edging closer to naggy hysteria by the minute; he realized it probably upset her to think about him throwing himself at more than a thousand Titans in his lifetime.

“I thought you said you had faith in me!”

“ _I do!”_

“Sounds like you don’t think I could do it. Sounds like you think I _will_ have my innards decorating the teeth of some Titan or something.”

“Auruo!”  

“Fine, fine. Anyway, so Levi’s better at killing Titans than me. It’s a fact of life.”

“He’s not better than you at cheering me up, though,” Petra said with a little smile. “Or making me laugh.”

“Nngh.”

“He’s not as funny as you, or as earnest.”

“I’m not earnest!”

“Oh, my god. Give it a rest, Auruo. You _are.”_

_“I’m --!!”_

She gently placed one slim finger against his lips, tracing it softly. “He’s not as good with kids.”

“That’s – that’s not something to be proud of,” Auruo muttered.

“Yes it is.”

Auruo felt a flush warm his face; just another thing to bury, as it did him no good in the life he’d chosen. “Geez, nag.”

Gently, she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, and a shiver ran through him. “He’s not as good at kissing as you.”

Auruo swallowed hard. “How would you know?!”

She hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose I don’t for sure. Would you like me to kiss him and get back to you?”

“I dunno, do _you_ want to do that?”

“Not really,” Petra said. “You have much nicer lips than he does.”

“What?!”

“It’s true. He has kind of thin features. Severe, you know. Not really appealing to me.”

“Is that so.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling more widely now. “You’re appealing to me.”

“Tch.”

“You are.”

“You’re biased.”

“Toward you? Yes.” She kissed him again, more deeply this time; he felt her shift closer, sliding over his legs until she was pressed flush against his chest, her ass to his lap, and he shivered – suddenly needful, hammered taut by anxiety and arousal.

“You’d make your dad a lot happier if you took up with Levi,” he managed.

“My father wants what’s best for me,” she said, framing Auruo’s face between her small, warm hands. “But he doesn’t know what that is.”

“Petra …”

She kissed him, harder this time; he felt her teeth drag against his lower lip, and he moaned against her mouth.

Absently, his hands trailed from the curve of her back to her hips, firm muscle shifting under his hands as she moved. He realized that her skirt had rucked midway up her thighs, and that smooth lovely skin he so ardently adored was within his reach. He could, so easily; god, he wanted to. When she shifted yet again, he felt a stir between his legs.

“Why are you getting excited?” she whispered.

“You’re grinding on my cock!” he nearly shouted. “What – I mean, god! Your skirts all dragged up, you’re wiggling around like –“ He swallowed again, tried in vain to breathe. “Fuck …”  

“We shouldn’t …” she said, voice breathy; she rocked her hips against his erection, and he buried his moan in the crook of her neck.

“What are you – f-fuck, Petra …”

“He’ll be back any minute …”

“So stop.” Not a command or a plea, but a challenge. “Unless that’s why you’re getting all excited.”

“I’m not,” she said, reaching between them to fumble with the buckle of his pants. “I’m not excited.”

“I’m not – _ah_ … I’m not, either.”

“Yes you are.” She turned her hips in a slow, aching circle against him, and he nearly cried out aloud. “You want me.”

“Will you shut up?”

“You get off on this.”

“You’re the one getting off.”

They both were. He was panting, painfully hard; he could have happily buried himself in her that minute. But he knew, as she did, that this was an integral part; this give and take made it better, made it theirs. No one else made love like this, no one else in the world.

He twisted a shaking hand in her bright auburn hair, and she arched against him, a long moan escaping from between parted lips as he dragged his tongue over her neck, as he sucked on the tender skin there, insistently, until she squirmed. “God,” she whimpered. “Oh, god …”

In one rough motion, he grabbed her around the waist and pinned her hard, and she hit the back of the sofa with a little gasp. He held himself above on his hands and knees, and pulled desperately at the buckle of his pants. Panting, she wriggled in place, hiking her skirt up her hips and pushed her smalls aside, two fingers sampling the wetness there, and he’d never found a sight so painfully arousing in his life. She looked up at him, her eyes half-lidded by want, shivering so eagerly beneath him, and it was too good, too fucking good. In this horrible house, right under the nose of her horrible father, she wanted him, badly enough to risk discovery by the worst possible person.

“You can’t be loud this time,” he growled as he stretched out above her, cock in hand. “You gotta keep it quiet.”

“You’re the one who has to keep it quiet,” she fired back breathlessly, arching up, rocking her slit against the length of him. “Grunting and groaning like an animal.”

He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a moan. “You like it.”

“No I – _oh_ …”

He curled above her, one hand cupping her ass, and buried himself to the hilt, muffling his long moan against her neck. Her fingers twisted hard in his hair, ruining her fastidious efforts to tame it from this morning, but he didn’t care; eagerly he thrust into her, relishing each gasp that escaped her parted lips, every shiver around his cock as he hit the spot that he knew would make her shudder.

Her hands were everywhere – gripping his thighs to draw him deeper, framing his shoulders and twining around his neck. “Hurry,” she gasped as he bent low to suck on her neck, her collarbone, anywhere that he could reach. “Oh, god, Auruo …”

“Shh…”

He quickened his pace, jaw set to keep the insane sounds firmly down, because there was no possible way they’d be able to play this off with the neighbors. Petra’s slim hand curled around his neck, her lips just a breath away from his ear. Every moan and gasp and sound was right there, in a shiver of heated air; he more than heard them, he felt them travel down his spine in a burst of sensation, synapses alight, and he felt it spread all the way to his toes. “Fuck, nag …”

She tipped her head back, exposing her long, pale neck, and he felt her go tight – already, she was spiraling above, and he gripped her hips, thrusting harder now, adjusting the angle so that it would be right, so that she would come, because god, he wasn’t going to be able to hold out for much longer.

“Hurry, hurry,” she moaned, gripping the armrest above her head.

He plunged his hands up her shirt, dragging it up to her armpit to free her breasts, and shuddering he brought his mouth to them, captured one between his teeth, tongue dragging across the hardened nipple. She cried out, muffling herself with her fist.

“You gotta … _ah_.” He shuddered as she did, twined together, twisting higher. “You gotta keep it down …”

“Don’t do that if you want me to be quiet,” she gasped.

“Are you telling me you don’t like it,” he said, bringing his mouth to her other breast. She went gorgeously tight, and he moaned – peppered her chest with kisses, each more desperate than the last. “Are you saying it doesn’t feel good.”

“You want me to yell? You want – _oh_ …” She closed her eyes, long lashes fanning against her cheek.

“I told you to keep it down,” he fired back, thrusting especially hard. “And I – _ahh_ … I meant it.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Nah…”

It had almost always been like this; the both of them, too loud for secrecy, completely unable to shut the hell up. He liked her lecturing, and she liked his carelessness – it got him hard, and made her wet.

She tangled fingers in his hair and pulled, and the pain was amazing – sent a hot shiver through him. Rocking back, he slung one of her legs over her shoulder, and it sent a hot shiver coursing through her. “Auruo, god – “ she whispered frantically, but he knew this was it – this was the angle, and it would make her weak.

“Come,” he ordered, gripping her waist so tightly that it might have hurt, but here it was good – the pain was good, it amplified her mounting orgasm. She shuddered and gasped beneath him, and each pulse stroking him until he shuddered and gasped too, thumb skimming the skin above her hipbone, the ridge of a scar against callus.

“Oh—oh—oh, _god,”_ she whimpered. “Oh, god, _Auruo_ …”

“Come on,” he groaned, going deep. “Come for me.”

And she did; just as her lips parted to moan, he leaned forward again and clapped his hand to her mouth – yet even muffled, the sound of it sent a hot jolt coursing through him. Reflexively, he thrust, head dipping to rest at the crook of her neck. He savored as she went tight in his arms, and savored more how she went liquid after, sagging against him, her breath warming the fine skin behind his ear.

“How do you do that?” she breathed.

“I’m a gifted man,” he grinned, his husky laughter muffled by her hair. “Isn’t that what you were – ah… _fuck_. Isn’t that what you were saying?”

Even sated, she was no pushover. “You need to hurry,” she urged him. “Unless you like the idea of waiting until tonight.”

“Like hell.” He thrust especially deeply to make his point.

This should not have been a surprise, considering their occupation, but he found the risk thrilling; every minute that passed brought them closer to the inevitable moment when Mr. Ral returned, and far from making him panic, it made him fast, made each thrust a subversive act, and every moan he coaxed from her mouth a victory.

“God, you feel good,” he groaned, lips to the corner of her open mouth. “Fuck, nag …”

“Shh …” she whispered, her hand sliding down to cup his ass, pull him deeper. “Of course I do.”

“ _F_ - _fuck_.” He never had any defense for that either, because it was as if this was never enough, and she wanted more of him, as much of him as he could possibly give. And he’d give it to her, gladly and enthusiastically, as long as he lived.

He felt that familiar fire-caught shiver, that tightness in his groin. The surety of his motions faded, and he grew more desperate, less exact – his hips jerked clumsily into her, faster and faster, until he could hardly see. And all he knew was the sound of her breathy moans against his ear, her hands dragging needing trenches up his back, and then the finishing stroke. “I need you…” she breathed. “I – _oh_ …”

“ _Shit,”_ he gasped, shuddering hard into her. “Holy shit, holy –“

Hands fisted tight, he let it come, let it pull him up and over, and he crested with eyes clenched hard; even so, he could see her, could feel her so exactly – the warm, silky wetness of Petra as he came, and god; for those few, shuddering seconds, it was his entire world.

He felt her hands on his face, brushing aside his sweaty hair. “You’re a deviant,” she grinned, and the way she said it was like a confession of deepest love.

“God, shut the fuck up,” he laughed breathlessly. “You’re a temptress.”

She pulled him down, wrapped her legs around his waist. “You’re an animal.”

“You’re a demon, a fuckin’ demon.”

“A savage.”

He snorted. “Savage is nowhere near as bad as demon.”

“You’re the worst,” she said, framing his face between her hands, thumbs skimming his cheeks. “Fucking me on my own father’s couch. What is wrong with you?”

“You’re a nag.” He kissed her. “And that _is_ the worst.”

She smiled against his mouth. “I love you.”

“Mm…”

“Even though you never say it back.”

“Yeah, I do,” he told her. “I tell you every day. Every time I think it.”

“You must not think it very often then.”

“Maybe I don’t say it with words, you tiny nag.”

He’d somehow said the right thing; her teasing grin faded into something softer, infinitely more affectionate. He felt himself flush at the intimacy, though it shouldn’t have mattered, being that he was still buried hilt deep in her. “Oh, Auruo…”

He ducked his head. “Don’t give me that.”

She was about to retort when they heard a sound, and the next thing he knew she’d shoved him hard, scrambling to pull her blouse back down over her bare breasts. “Your pants!” she hissed, yanking her long skirt back down and darting into the wash closet. She disappeared in a flash of copper and green. Shaking, his hands shuddering nervously, he arranged himself and zipped his pants just as the front door jostled.

There, on the threshold, stood Mr. Ral. For a second Auruo feared he knew exactly what had happened; his eyes roved to the couch, to Auruo sitting stock still, his back straight –nothing like his previous, irritated posture. A glimmer of misgiving chased across those craggy features.

“Where’s Petra?” Mr. Ral said, eyes narrowing on the scene.

Auruo swallowed, pointing vaguely in the direction of the wash closet. It was futile, but he struggled to breathe in a normal manner. Slowly he realized how obvious he looked; hair mused, sweat marking his brow, his clothes suspiciously askew. Shuddering and weak; the sated pleasure as obvious as if it was writ across his features.

Just as he thought Mr. Ral would tan his hide for daring to touch his daughter, Petra burst from the wash closet, looking as pretty and put together as she might have for a wedding. “Hi, Dad,” she said sunnily, striding to him and pressing a kiss to his cheek (and Auruo, poor stupid fool, was forced to remember that only one minute before those lips had been parted as she moaned his name).

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Mr. Ral said. “The shop, you know …”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Petra said, plopping down beside Auruo once again. “I understand. Auruo kept me company.” As a disbelieving Mr. Ral looked on, she reached for his hand and threaded her fingers with his. And in that way, after years of keeping it hidden, they informed Mr. Ral of the nature of their relationship.


	12. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt -- Blood, for PetruoWeek day 1

Auruo’s mother went into labor Saturday evening, just as they were clearing the dinner dishes from the table. Up in Sina this might have been a cause for celebration and anticipation, but in the slum where Auruo lived childbirth was harrowing and often fatal; with that first contraction, the powderkeg of anxiety that had made a home in the Bossard household ignited.

“At least … nngh … you don’t have work tomorrow,” Mrs. Bossard joked through clenched teeth. “Maybe it’ll be over by then.”

His father didn’t even seem to hear; his face had gone white as bone, his usual smile conspicuously absent. “Get the midwife,” he said to Auruo.

And Auruo obeyed.

~

When Petra arrived at the Bossard’s that Sunday morning, she was greeted with a bone chilling sight; Auruo hunched on the stoop with Benoit on his lap, his features pulled in ancient anxiety, harrowed by fear. They’d only known one another for a few months, but it didn’t take years of experience to see his disquiet. She was about to ask what was wrong when she heard a weak scream from within the house, and a chill shot down the back of her neck.

“Is it …?” she whispered.

Auruo nodded dully. In the cage of his arms, Benoit whimpered, his little lip trembling as he teetered on the edge of sobs.

There was only a moment of silence between them, but it seemed to stretch an age. Her own memories beckoned – illness, slow decline, a grave where once had been a mother – but in that heartbeat a measure of resolve coalesced in her heart. This was not the time to panic, or to wallow in her own tragedies; it was time to be there for her friend, who was more precious to her than anything.

“Come on,” she said gently, touching his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“I’m s’posed to watch Benoit,” Auruo said, his voice as dull and harrowed as his posture.

“We’re taking Benoit too,” she assured him. “Just far enough away that you can’t hear anymore, alright?”

He hesitated just as another weak scream pierced the air; she saw him flinch, but he stood his ground, his expression heavy with unearned age. “I don’t want to … if something happens, I –“

“Okay,” she said, and took a seat beside him on the stoop, almost close enough to touch. Carefully, she pried Benoit out of Auruo’s stiff arms, and instantly the toddler clung to her, burying his little face against her neck. “Shh,” she soothed, rubbing his back. Genuine comfort proved too much for the boy; a piteous whimper escaped him, muffled by her cardigan.

Above their heads, sheets and linens strung on lines caught and snapped in the autumn breeze, veiling the rising sun. She could hear merchants calling a few streets over, preparing for the day’s market, and she rubbed Benoit’s back with deeper purpose now; the later the hour, the better the everyday cacophony would drown out any reminder and the easier it would be to forget, for at least a little while.

“Alright,” she said to both. “We’ll stay here awhile.”

~

Auruo said nothing for the rest of the morning. Every few moments there would be a low moan of pain from within their house; somewhat drowned out by the Sunday bustle of their neighborhood, yet each time made him wince, and etched the lines of anxiety more deeply in his features. But he did not respond to her overtures; the most he offered was a noncommittal grunt each time she attempted to prod him into conversation, which was the only way she knew how to distract.  

By contrast, Benoit was anything but remote; he clung to her with earnest tenacity, his big brown eyes bright with unshed tears. She shushed him and hummed and rubbed his little back, and when he got hungry she trotted down the street and paid for a sweet roll, feeding it to him in tiny pieces.

It was when she tried to sing a song to ease him to sleep that finally broke through Auruo’s grim reserve. As she sang he stared at her with an expression she didn’t recognize; after a moment, she realized he was trying not to laugh.

“What’s that face?” she said, a little offended.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just that I never heard you sing before.”

“Yeah? And?”

He bit his lip. “It’s … nice.”

“You don’t have to lie!”

“I’m not!! It’s really … it’s really something.”

“You’re lying,” she shot back, peevish. “Why don’t you sing then, if you’re such a good judge?”

And then, a miracle; both Auruo and Benoit smiled briefly, as if they shared some private joke. Petra wasn’t even aware you could have a private joke with a toddler, but that didn’t seem to stop them. Without any fanfare, Auruo launched into the same tune she’d been trying to sing, but the difference was clear; his voice was pure as birdsong, pitched to perfection. Her jaw dropped; she had never imagined that this grumpy, irascible boy could possess such a gift.

“How’s that, bud?” he asked Benoit when he’d finished.

“Hee!” Benoit crowed.

“You never told me you could sing like that,” she said.

“You never asked.”

“What a cheap answer! If I could sing like that I’d be singing all the time. I’d never stop.”

He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with her praise. “It’s not a big deal. Just something I do to calm the brat down.”

And indeed; Benoit was far calmer than he’d been a moment ago. He curled into a loose ball on her lap and sucked his thumb, his eyes drifting shut. It was testament to Auruo’s voice that it could soothe his brother after a night of harrowed worry and a morning in the middle of their noisy street, despite everything that was happening just a few rooms away.

At that moment, a sharp cry of pain slipped through the windows and the crack under the front door, fading to piteous moan. Empathy overwhelmed her. Clenched hands trembled, that old helplessness crowding her heart, prickling at her eyes. She cursed herself; if she was going to cheer up Auruo and keep his thoughts from what might happen, she needed to be better.

“Well, I think it’s lovely,” she told him a little desperately, scooting closer. “I think you could probably sing for money if you wanted.”

“I’ll probably have to, since I don’t know how to do anything else,” he muttered.

Talk of making money usually cheered him up, but not today; for some reason, something that lurked beyond her understanding, buried beneath his many layers of reticence and fear. She was still learning him, what made him sad and eased his sadness. She frowned; for the first time in the months they’d known each other, she was at a loss.

She was going to have to ask him.

“Auruo?”

He looked up from his hands and met her gaze, brow furrowed.

“Can you … I know that it’s dangerous, and – I mean, when I lived in my village sometimes women would … but I mean, your mother’s … it’s not her first baby, and I just –“

“You want to know why I’m upset,” he clarified in a dull voice. “Right?”

“I just …the way you’ve been, it all seems …” She bit her lip, hating the word. “Disproportionate.”

“It’s not,” he said in that same, awful tone. “The midwife says she’s probably going to die.”

She gaped, her thoughts wheeling furiously. “She … she said she’ll …?”

“Die,” Auruo said again, and this time the word trembled; his hands clenched into fists on his lap, tendons starkly white.

It was surreal; they sat at the edge of his street, buffeted by the sounds of people calling, haggling over wares. Somewhere deeper in the city her father was likely among them, attempting to move his goods on the busiest day of the week. It didn’t seem right that behind them Auruo’s mother clung to life, not only for her sake but for the baby’s. It didn’t seem possible. Not on such a normal day.

Of course, she knew full well what could come of normal days. Deceptively sunny, bright as a smile. Tricks.

“Why?” she whispered finally.

“Something about the baby being turned around, or – I don’t know.” Auruo shivered. “I didn’t hear much, after awhile. Just … sounds, not really words. I mean they were words, but I didn’t … I didn’t understand them anymore.”

She shifted closer until they were nearly touching, careful not to jostle Benoit too much, as he’d finally fallen asleep. “You don’t know that she will, Auruo,” she said quietly.

“It’s what the midwife said.”

“I find that hard to believe,” she said firmly. “Is she a bad midwife? They’re not supposed to talk like that, not even when things look dire. They’re always supposed to work to save both lives, if possible.”

“You know that for sure, huh? Maybe she’s being realistic about it. God, Petra; she’s seen enough goddamn babies born to know a hopeless situation when she sees it.”

Petra ignored this. “Tell me exactly what she said.”

At first, Auruo said nothing. She watched him trace the outline of a new burn on his forearm, likely from the mill. Being careless, tangled too deeply in his thoughts. “She didn’t outright say she could die, I guess. But … fuck, Petra. She’s a – she’s a smug, jokey piece of crap. Always taking her time, laughing about everything. And today she’s as solemn as a fuckin’ judge. She’s been coming over to our house every other day talking with my mom all quiet and shit, and today I’ve never seen her move so fast. I had to get her when Benoit was born and she took her goddamn time, saying hi to everyone. Not today.”

“You don’t know that it’s about your mom. Maybe something else is going on, something she wouldn’t tell you about. In her own life, maybe.”

For the first time since they’d met, he shot her a furious look, and it startled her – the depth of his reaction, a barely contained simmer. “Why’re you giving me this bullshit, Petra?! This – fuckin’ bullshit adults give me ‘cause they think I’m too young to think about this kinda stuff. I’m gonna have to deal with what happens, whether I’m too young or not! So why’re you giving me this shit too?”

She hadn’t realized that she was. She drew back from him, cowed by his words. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice nearly swallowed by the market’s din. “You’re right.”

It took him only a few moments to deflate, for guilt to replace desperate anger. “No, I just – fuck, Petra, I’m just … I –“ He trailed off, looking so hopelessly lost that it hurt. “I dunno what I’m supposed to do,” he finally said.

“What do you mean?”

“If it happens!” he blurted. “If she dies! I’m gonna have to … I dunno! Who’s gonna watch Benoit? And – and the baby, if it survives? I have to keep working with Dad, ‘cause we need the money but someone’s gotta watch the brats, and – I dunno how to cook that well yet, and I can’t knit or sew that well yet either! And Ma, she’s … I can clean, alright – I can do that. But I can’t do everything!”

His voice broke. “I dunno how to do everything, and she’ll – I don’t want her to – I don’t want …She’s not that old! She isn’t old at all, she just works hard and it messes things up, and I just want – I don’t want her to …”

Here it was; the core of what he felt. Though he hadn’t given it voice, she understood well; he was terrified of losing someone he loved, and failing those who would be left _._ He didn’t want his mother to die. Without thinking she reached over and took his hand, squeezing it gently.

Before she could speak, he cut her off. “Don’t gimme that ‘she’s going to be alright’ kinda shit, okay? Don’t … don’t lie to me.”

“I won’t,” she said quietly. “She might not.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “I dunno – I dunno what – if she –“

“Listen,” she said, each word careful, a light yet unwavering step. “When my mom … it was really hard and I didn’t know what to do.  But we found a way to live without her, and if it happens you will too. There’s always a way forward, alright? I promise you that.”

But he only shook his head. “I – I don’t – I dunno what to _do!_ It’s not just believing things are gonna be okay, I don’t know what to _do!_  And I have to – I have to be able to – I’ll have to … _”_ His voice shook, nearly as badly as his hands.  

In that moment, sitting beside Auruo as another cry of pain sounded behind them, something in her broke; gentleness faded in lieu of determination. “Do you think I’d let you do this alone?” she said fiercely, her grip on his hand tightening. “Do you think I’ll just leave you to deal with all of this without help?”

“It’s not your responsibility,” he said dully, but he didn’t move to draw his hand away. “You don’t –“

“Stop,” she said. “I told you, remember? It’s not just for the Survey Corps either. I’ll always have your back, and you’ll have mine. No matter what we’re doing.”

He looked at her, then, and his eyes were bright. “What?”

She knew enough about him to know his surprise was not a reflection on herself; regardless, she needed to show him that she was serious, that as long as he was alive, she’d hold this promise.

“I’ll prove it to you,” she said, and she carefully set Benoit down against the curve of the step, breathing a small sigh of relief when he did not stir. “We’ll make a blood promise.”

“A what?!”

With quick fingers, she eased one of the pins out of her hair, testing its point against her fingertip. “Do they not do these in Karanese?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” he said, blinking at her. “I mean … maybe they do. I just haven’t –“

“Right.” He hadn’t had any friends before her. “People do them in my old village to settle an accord. A serious one – not everyday kind of stuff, like ‘I promise to clean up after myself,’ or ‘I promise to do the shopping this week’. They’re for serious, lifelong promises, understand?”

He nodded, eyes wide.

“It’s part of a marriage ceremony, too. I mean – it’s not just for marriage,” she clarified quickly, blushing. “Friends do it too, because it’s a serious promise. Something that lasts forever, and that’s not just for husbands and wives. So … give me your hand.”

He obeyed without a word; she almost thought that he blushed too, though it couldn’t have been more than a trick of the light, the midday sun veiled by the snapping sheets overhead. She held his left hand in hers and held the pin over his palm, fingers trembling a little. “Is this alright?”

He nodded again. “Y-yeah.”

“It’ll hurt. I have to make a cut that will bleed enough.”

Finally, he seemed to regain a little of himself; his expression contorted with offense. “I can handle it.”

With that, she drew the pin across his palm until red blossomed from the cut. And to his credit, he didn’t flinch or draw back from her ministrations; he remained still as a stone, chewing savagely on the corner of his tongue. “Okay?”

He nodded tightly.

“Now you have to do my hand.”

Predictably, he blanched. “I have to – why do I have to do it to you?”

“Because we’re supposed to. It’s a trust thing.”

He clearly did not like the idea of making her bleed, but he took her left hand in his right with nearly unbearable tenderness, and before he could reconsider drew the pin across her palm, wincing worse than he had when she cut him. “Okay?” he asked, voice shaking.

Truthfully, it hurt. But that was the point. “Of course. Now we clasp hands like _this.”_ She took his hand, cut palms pressed together, just as a chorus of screaming and shouting filled the air – louder now, stronger than it had been all morning. She forged ahead, trembling on a swell of determination. “I _promise_ that I’ll always be there for you. For the rest of my life, no matter what happens, I’ll always have your back. _Always._ ”

His hand trembled so badly that it sent tremors rippling up her arm, but his grip was firm. His fine brows furrowed as he tested the weight of the accord, with earnestness beyond anything she’d known in her life. She meant every word.

“Do I – repeat?”

“You don’t have to say it word for word,” she said with a little shrug, wincing as it sent a twitch of pain shooting through her cut palm.

“Alright. I – I promise that I’ll always be there for you. As long as I’m alive, and probably longer than that. If, uh – if the priests are right. I’ll always have your back, no matter what. Even if – ah … even if you get sick of me. I’ll still look out for you.”

“Okay, hold on. I promise that I’ll never get sick of you,” she amended, smiling at him. “No matter what.”

“You don’t know. I’m pretty annoying. I could get even worse than I am now.”

“I don’t care. I’ll never get sick of you. Like it or not, you’re stuck with me, got it?”

“I promise that I’ll always like that I’m stuck with you,” he said, and finally he smiled up at her – exhausted and harrowed, his lovely eyes rimmed by shadow, but a smile. The first one she’d ever seen.

“Okay.” She took a breath and summoned the words, the seal on this truth, a truth that would shape them for the rest of their days. “ _Now it is writ in our blood.”_  

And for once, he let the ceremony pass without sarcasm; he was solemn as the midwife, solemn as a priest. Solemn with significance. At last he released her hand, staring at the smear of blood across his wounded palm. “That makes it official, huh?”

“The most official of anything we can ever do,” she said, echoing his gravity. “At least without a magistrate.”

“Are you saying we’re married now!?”

“No, dummy!” She sighed, rolled her eyes; anything to distract from the blush that colored her cheeks. “I told you. It’s for anyone making a serious promise.”

“Right …”

They waited in silence as his mother’s screaming grew and changed, less pain and more determination; she passed him her handkerchief but he shook his head, clenching his hurt hand into a fist. Gently, she lifted Benoit back onto her lap just as the toddler stirred, whimpering for contact and comfort. She soothed him as she had before, wrapping her cut hand and rubbing his little back. But this time she laid her head against Auruo’s shoulder, and he let his head rest atop hers. And there they waited; not comforted, fearful of what waited for them, but secure in their promise.

~

It was nearing dusk when they heard the piercing wail of an infant, and jubilant sounds from the midwife – her husky voice audible over the din. Petra shook Auruo’s arm, tears rushing to her eyes. “That sounds good,” she sobbed with relief. “I think she’s okay.”

Benoit, of course, began to cry the moment she did, but what surprised her was that even Auruo shivered, a tremulous breath escaping him, as if he’d held it the entire day. “Why’re you so upset?” he demanded, scrubbing at bright eyes with the back of his hand.

“I’m just – relieved,” she hiccupped, hugging Benoit tightly. “Shut up.”

But it was different. It wasn’t the whole truth, she thought as she looked at him, a swell of terrible affection taking hold of her heart. They had leaned on one another, and made a solemn vow, the pain of it still throbbing in her bloodied palm, and in it there was a sort of strength. No matter what awaited them now, they were bound. They could withstand anything.


	13. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petruo Week, prompt 2: Night Out

Petra got the text at 3:49pm, just as she was about to take her break. She knew before looking at her phone that it would be from Auruo, and that he probably had or would have some big idea; he was usually getting big ideas around this time of day, and she’d learned to anticipate it.

Sure enough, when she swiped her thumb across her phone’s smooth face, his name greeted her like a roguish grin. She could almost see the man attached, beckoning from the other side.

            _[text: Auruo] well???_

_[text: Petra] Well, what?_

_[text: Auruo] don't be coy you little shit_  
_[text: Auruo] tell me how the fuck it went_  
 _[text: Auruo] i’ll call ur office and make an ass of myself if u dont_

It was good that he was probably at his apartment and she was here, in the break room of her office, because if he’d seen the bright smile that overtook her face, she’d never live it down. But she couldn’t help it; she was hopelessly charmed by his enthusiasm.

            _[text: Petra] Thumbs up._

_[text: Auruo] no shit???_

_[text: Petra] None whatsoever._

_[text: Auruo] HELL YEAH  
            [text: Auruo] what’d i tell ya huh?? i fckin told you_

            _[text: Petra] You told me._

_[text: Auruo] now u gotta start believin me when i say this shit instead of hemming and hawing like u do_

_[text: Petra] Where’s the fun in that?_

_[text: Auruo] since when r u concerned with anythin fun??_

_[text: Petra] I’ve been known to let my hair down from time to time._

_[text: Auruo] once in a blue fckin moon, thats for sure_

_[text: Petra] Weren’t you trying to congratulate me?_

_[text: Auruo] nah_

She covered her mouth with her hand, though he wasn’t around to see the truly ridiculous intensity of her smile. She thought of him, probably hunched at his desk in his apartment, surrounded technical manuals and stray pieces of paper, each with more incomprehensible details than the last. He was working on a contract for some software firm, and their endless nitpicky instructions made him very ill-tempered, more so than usual. That he’d taken time out of his grouchy labors to be excited on her behalf was more touching than she wanted to admit.

With an imperceptible sigh, she thought about the last time they’d seen each other; last weekend, the pier. They’d picked up dinner from a food cart and talked until after the sun had gone down, bickering and bantering until blue in the face. He’d seemed tired and irritable then; probably pulling longer hours as he raced to complete his contract. There’d been circles under his eyes, and a weary crease between his fine brows, one that she’d fantasized about smoothing away with her thumb.

Before she could text him again, her phone buzzed. She’d bit her lip against another smile; in the last few minutes, he’d been thinking about her too.

_[text: Auruo] nag_   
_[text: Auruo] NAG_   
_[text: Auruo] ok now that i got ur attention listen up_   
_[text: Auruo] we r goin out tonite_

_[text: Petra] Are we?_

_[text: Auruo] u heard it here first_

_[text: Petra] What’s the occasion?_

_[text: Auruo] a certain nag i know just published some big fancy piece in some big fancy newsrag  
            [text: Auruo] and a certain handsome genius u know just finished his fckin contract_

_[text: Petra] Oh my god, finally. How did it go??_

_[text: Auruo] theyre fine with it. as fine with anythin i could make for them anyway  
            [text: Auruo] and i notice u arent disputin me bein a handsome genius_

_[text: Petra] It’s because you text faster than I do._

_[text: Auruo] youd text plenty fast if u gave up this whole capitalization grammar thing_

_[text: Petra] Never._

She couldn’t deny that the prospect of going out was an attractive one. It was Friday, and she didn’t have anything to do over the weekend, no deadline to crunch. She was in a light mood, and it seemed that he was too; on such days, their bickering took a mischievous, light-hearted tone, made all the better by the fact that he was adorable when pleased with himself. Not that she’d ever let him know about it.

            _[text: Auruo] so is that a no on goin out_

_[text: Petra] No._

_[text: Auruo] is that a no on no?_

_[text: Petra] Yes_ _J_

_[text: Auruo] ur the worst nag. lettin me get all disappointed_

She swallowed.

            _[text: Petra] Were you disappointed?_

_[text: Auruo] haha. meet me @ the underground, 7pm. y/n?_

_[text: Petra] Are you treating me to bar food for dinner??_

_[text: Auruo] r u callin that shitty bar food a treat??_

Inexplicably, she was tempted. As far as bars went it was marginally understaffed and short on patrons, but the ones who made it their haunt were ferociously loyal. Auruo sometimes played there on weekdays, so the proprietor gave him a discount on food and beer whenever he bothered to show up. Petra liked that they substituted the requisite loud rock played on tinny speakers for live jazz all week, as this better facilitated conversation.

It suited Auruo too, she thought; a grouchy curmudgeon in short supply of patience for people and crowds. Around the people he liked, you couldn’t shut him up; unfortunately, you could probably count that number on one hand.

            _[text: Petra] It’s a treat if I don’t have to cook for a night._

_[text: Auruo] gasp. i thought u liked cookin_

_[text: Petra] I do! Doesn’t meant I want to cook every night._

_[text: Auruo] what a sad commentary._

_[text: Petra] Oh, shut up. I’ll see you at 7._

_[text: Auruo] whatever suits u, nag._

_[text: Petra] Don’t try to play cool! You’re the one who asked me to come out!_

_[text: Auruo] blah blah yawn fart, details are borin, see u then :P_

And there it was; the infuriating Auruo she knew and – well, something. Fuming slightly, she stowed her phone in her pocket and tried to deny her excitement.

With the thrill of a plan ahead, the rest of the day dragged maddeningly. She attempted to get a start on next week’s assignment so she could justify relaxing for the weekend. Auruo, similarly bored, amused himself by sending her links to videos he found hilarious via IM and delighting in her mild outrage.

            _bosshard: watch this shit_  
            Pral86: Auruo …  
            bosshard: omg its just a seal its completely innocent i swear  
            bosshard: its cute  
            Pral86: I doubt it.  
            bosshard: u have no faith in me and it actually breaks my heart  
            bosshard: dont u like cute shit???  
            Pral86: No, it’s just you sent me the shrieking seal video already.  
            bosshard: ahahahahahahahahahahah  
            Pral86: Find some new material.  
            bosshard: not my fault u got an elephants memory  
            Pral86: I’m officially reconsidering my plans for the evening.

She wasn’t, of course.

She spent the rest of her shift mentally tabulating whether she’d have enough time to go home and change her clothes into something a little nicer; today she’d worn a boring grey A-line skirt and white blouse with the standard 3-inch heels. After a moment, she reconsidered; aside from the fact that she didn’t want to keep him waiting, she shouldn’t care about dressing to impress him. They’d been friends since college, and you weren’t supposed to care what old friends thought of how you looked. You were supposed to wear grungy pajamas around them, your hair pulled back with a pencil when you couldn’t find a clip. Stuff like that.

While booting down her desktop, she attempted to rationalize. She was probably just lonely; attempting to find companionship where it was easily accessible. The dating scene was endlessly frustrating; every date she’d been on in the last three years had ended in mild disappointment or disaster, and these days she had no desire to repeat the experience. She was probably lonely, and the loneliness fried her brain. That was it.

But … she wasn’t lonely, not really. She had no desire to repeat the experience because she legitimately enjoyed Auruo’s confounding company, and inexplicably found him attractive. She’d been finding him attractive for years, swallowing the interest she felt as inconvenient or inappropriate. It was just easier to be friends, safer. Things were fine as they were.

She shrugged into her coat and stepped into the cool November evening, hiking the collar to protect her neck from the misting rain. Carhorns bleated and taillights winked through the hazy fog, red and white vivid against deepening dark; she was far enough from the center of the city to see the skyline, veiled by low clouds. It was the kind of weather that inspired ennui, but she looked up at the haze of the moon through the clouds and felt a swell of anticipation settle in her chest.

When she stepped into the Underground twenty minutes later, she was damp and chilled and positively starving, yet still far more excited than she should have been to see Auruo. _Your friend,_ she reminded herself firmly as she scanned the darkened interior. The night’s entertainment had not yet begun; the half stage at the head of the room was illuminated by dim red and purple lights, giving the trio an otherworldly appearance. It was supposed to enhance their mystique, and it worked beautifully when Auruo was the one at the grand piano, a cigarette clamped between his teeth, his mused hair catching the strident light as he played.

She saw him waving madly just a few tables away from the stage, and her stomach flipped. She felt weirdly as if she hadn’t seen him in a few years, even though it had only been a few days, and now that this vast separation was over only now did it register. Though she wanted to hurry to his table, she made herself adopt a steady pace through the moderately empty bar, weaving around tables and shoving the self-consciousness aside.

“You’re soaked,” he said, brows quirking. “Forget your umbrella again?”

She shrugged and took a seat, delicately removing her coat.

“Why not take a cab, huh?”

“Because cabs are a waste of money and I’m not rich.”

He scowled at her, but she could see his lips twitching against a grin. “You’re so fuckin’ stubborn.”

“It’s nice to see you, too.”

“Damn right it is.” Now he didn’t bother to restrain his shifty grin, and her heart gave a strange lurch at the sight. “You’re in for a treat.”

“Yeah?”

“See those guys?”

She craned around him and glanced at the trio again, watching as the drummer tested his kit with odd delicacy and the pianist tapped his knuckles against the body of the grand. The saxophonist turned his back on the meager audience to quickly ascend an odd scale she didn’t recognize. “What about them?”

“We went to school with them. They’re fuckin’ _weird.”_

“I don’t remember them.”

“You don’t remember the guys who’d busk outside the union? They’d coordinate and shit, wear weird little vests and hop around.”

She did a double take. “Oh my god, that’s them?”

Auruo nodded, covering a grin with his palm. “You didn’t recognize them?!”

“Well, they aren’t acting weird or wearing vests, so how could I have?” She craned closer. “What are they doing here?”

“I guess they tour a lot. I saw they have this old VW bus out back, they load up in there and just bum around the country, playing at places like this.”

She took a sip of water. “You sound a little jealous.”

“Nah,” he said, waving this off. “It’s kinda interesting to think about, but … ha. I had enough living like a transient when we came west, remember?”

“Oh, god.” She covered her face with her palm. “Please don’t remind me.”

“Exactly.” He snickered. “Driving two-thousand miles with you bitching in my ear every fuckin’ minute, more like no thanks.”

“Are you seriously making that about me?! You’re the one who wouldn’t shut up about how your _ass_ hurt and you were _tired, weh._ Poor Auruo.”

“It always took you two hours to get ready in the morning!”

“I didn’t want to forget anything! You’re the one who would sleep until ten.”

“Like fuck I did! You shook me awake at 5AM! Brutalized me until I dragged my poor, weary ass out of bed.”

“Are you seriously calling what I did brutalizing?”

“It sure wasn’t gentle!”

She noticed that he carefully avoided mention of the evening in Idaho when he’d walked in on her changing. The whole way west they’d elected to stay in one room, since it was cheaper, and most had two beds, so there wasn’t anything weird about it. But they’d rolled into Idaho the same day as some kind of convention, so the only room left had been one with a single, full-sized bed – hardly bigger than the bathtub.

He’d laughed, and she shrugged it off. She hadn’t recognized the ill omen, the way things could go wrong in just the space of a heartbeat. While she changed in the bathroom he’d barged in – oblivious to her. It’d been nearly three years ago, but the memory of his expression still brought a quick flush to her face. She’d yelled at him, of course; anything to save face and mask the shameful reaction wreaking chaos in her thoughts. And he’d yelled right back, blushing furiously and stumbling into the suitcase rack. They’d slept in silence that night, with their backs to each other. That was the first night she’d considered how badly she wanted to roll over and press her lips to his, the first night she’d allowed herself to ache with need.

They ordered a basket of mozzarella sticks and their drinks (he an IPA, she a Belgian whit). It occurred to him as she watched him speak that he was in a far better mood than usual; normally the appearance of people they’d known from college would have put him in an irritable mood, not to mention her accusation – he’d have fought back with everything he had. But now he looked at the stage with eager fondness, chancing quick glances at her every few moments. She felt her face warm.

“You think you’ll say hi?” she asked him.

“Jesus Christ, no. Why would I?”

She shrugged. “You just don’t look as upset to see people we know as you usually would have.”

“It’s got nothing to do with them. Anyway, uh – cheers.” He lifted his glass, and it took her a moment to tap hers against the rim. “Congratulations on giving the world what for.”

She smiled into her beer. “Very eloquent.”

“Shut up.”

“Well, congratulations to you too. For doing your job and getting paid.”

“Is that sarcasm I hear, you twit?!” He had to speak up a little, as the trio behind them had begun to play an odd, esoteric number she didn’t recognize.

“No! Of course not. I am actually impressed.”

“Oh. Well.” He shrugged, rubbing the back of his head with a nervous hand and struggling to bite back his little pleased grin. God, he was cute. “I’m pretty glad to be rid of them, to be honest.”

“I’d imagine.”

“Okay, but you don’t even – I didn’t even tell you. I’d get texts and emails from the fuckin’ client at 4AM. No salutation or anything, no apology. Just – ok now we want it like THIS. And if I didn’t reply until a normal fuckin’ hour, they’d be like ‘you know we’re paying you for prompt service’, like me taking the time to _sleep_ and _eat_ was some big fuckin’ imposition.”

She frowned. “Just because you’re freelance doesn’t mean you’re on 24-7 retainer. You have business hours.”

“Right? Well, I mean – I end up workin’ that late anyway, since that’s when – ah, whatever. You know.”

She did; it was when he often felt most creative, much to the chagrin of his neighbors.

“But the point is, if you’re texting me between one and nine in the morning, I’m not gonna reply. You got me every other hour, just give me those.”

“You should put it in clear language in your contract, Auruo,” she chided gently.

He scowled, thumbing the rim of his glass. “They’re less likely to hire you the more little stipulations you have. I mean, I guess it’s the tradeoff. If you wanna work from home, you gotta be their bitch.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Right, sorry. Ah, Christ. Tonight’s supposed to be about you, anyway. How ‘bout we shut up about my stupid job?”

She couldn’t help but to smile at him. “I like hearing about your job. I think someday I’d like to do something similar.”

“Freelance?”

She took a small bite of a mozzarella stick. “Yeah. It’d be nice to write someplace nice and cozy.” She made a face. “And _clean.”_

He followed suit, but his bite was anything but dainty; he nearly shoved the whole thing in his mouth and chewed with rude abandon. And she hated that she found it adorable. “Your office ain’t clean?”

“I guess clean isn’t the right word. It’s just so … bleak. Fluorescent lights, grey carpet. The light over my desk flickers; I always have the worst migraine by the time my shift is over.”

He pulled a worried face. “D’you have one right now?”

“Not so bad today, actually.” She swallowed and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Anyway, it’d be nice to work from home. I like my apartment. It’s cozy.”

Finally, he grinned. “You’d get so lonely.”

“What?”

“You’d get lonely! Bored and lonely! I dunno that you got the temperament for freelance work. You get weird when you’re by yourself too much.”

“What the hell do you mean ‘I get weird’?!”

“You get weird! Like all overly serious and shit. Staid as fuck. It’s weird, Petra! Like remember when you had this deadline and all you did was work for a whole week, you didn’t talk to anyone, not even your coworkers – not even me! And you didn’t answer calls or anything, and by the end of it you were this depressed little shell. I had to bait you for a full night before you came back to life.”

“Is that what you were doing?” she muttered. “Maybe I’m a serious person.”

“Nah. You wish you were, maybe.” He grinned from behind the rim of his glass. “You pretend you are. Petra Ral, _serious journalist, professional adult.”_

It deeply annoyed her that he not only recognized her true self but took special delight in piercing her preferences, revealing the excitable, passionate person she tried to dismiss. She couldn’t completely blame him, though; she took the same delight in piercing his boastful, egotistical shell and exposing the earnestness within.

“I am serious,” she insisted, taking an irritated bite of fried cheese. “I take things seriously.”

“That’s not the same as being serious.”

“And you’d know, would you?”

“Sure,” he said easily. “I’m a handsome genius, remember? I know many things.”

“You’re an irritating dope.”

“And you’re a touchy nag.”

God, he was annoying, and she’d be lying if she said that his brand of annoying didn’t appeal to her. He could never know how deeply it appealed to her. “I don’t think it’d be weird, if I worked freelance. For one thing, I’d work in Starbucks or the library so I’d be around people all day. For another, even if I _did_ work from home, I’d just do what you do.”

“Uh huh. And what’s that?”

“Harass you with texts and IMs the whole day.”

“Harass! Are you kidding me?”

She batted away his reaching fingers and snatched the last mozzarella stick from the basket, flashing him a sweet smile. “Not at all.”

“You’re gonna accuse me of harassing you _and_ take the last mozzarella stick?!”

She let him dangle for a moment, waving the piece of friend cheese near her open mouth as if she were about to take a bite; though to her dismay, she noticed a flush of quick color rise in his cheeks, his gaze focusing on her lips before dropping to her hands. It’d been innocent, as these mistakes usually were; she often forgot she couldn’t let herself act as ridiculous as she might have normally, because there were boundaries to mind. Considerations when you found yourself inexplicably attracted to your best friend.

With a nervous laugh, she carefully broke the stick in half and gave him the piece with the longest string of cheese. “Even I’m not that awful,” she said lightly, an invitation to continue like before.

But for some reason he didn’t take it. “You’re never awful,” he said, studying his palms. After a moment he looked back up, roguish grin firmly in place. “I’m just giving you shit, Petra. You can have it. This is s’posed to be in your honor, anyway.”

“Ha, come on. My _honor._ It’s not that big of a deal.” She was suddenly anxious to return to their sharp, familiar banter, too much like a comfortable pair of shoes. But this conversation became more uncomfortable by the minute; he wasn’t acting like he should, and she wasn’t either. They were distracted, finally, by something unspoken.

“Geez, Petra,” he said. “Give yourself a little credit, huh? You took a shitty position in a shitty fuckin’ newsrag and you use it to say important stuff. That’s a lot better than most people manage.”

It was too much, too kind; she couldn’t stand it. If he continued, she would reach across the table and take his hand, press her lips to his strong fingers, more at home on the keys of a computer or piano than anywhere else. She would forget why they maintained careful distance. “Please,” she said, with a nervous smile.  

There was one last moment of uncomfortable sincerity, then he grinned and plucked the smaller piece of fried cheese from her open palm, tossing it into his mouth. “Alright, alright.”

They spent hours in that darkened club, talking and drinking too much beer than was probably a good idea, buffeted by the sounds of the trio, who played music that became more intimate with every minute. As the warmth of alcohol spread from her face to her belly, she noticed details that she forced herself to ignore in daylight; the way his hair curled against his brow, the exact shape of his fingers as they drummed against the table, in time with the music. He laughed more and hummed along, his hands moving to the shape of his words. She watched his lips as they moved, and imagined them on her neck.

It was harder to remember why she kept him at arm’s length, in the firm territory of friendship. It was prudent, probably; smarter. To move beyond was a risk, and she wasn’t a brash little spitfire anymore, blindly swept along by her passions. A long, meaningful friendship of seven years was not something to squander because of hormones and desire … wasn’t it?

She watched him, caught and captured. It was the alcohol and the music; it was the dark club and the tiny tables, wedging them so closely that every now and then their knees brushed. It was the intoxicating measure of his presence and the measure of seven years spent pretending. And suddenly, surrounded by dazzling music in that little club, she was tired of the act.

It was many hours later when the trio took their final bow and vacated the stage. She only just now noticed that the bar was mostly empty; aside from the two of them, only the bartender and a few isolated pairs of patrons remained. Now the proprietor dimmed the vibrant lights, leaving the grand piano bathed in a subdued purple glow. In her altered state, she found the sight hopelessly sad.

Auruo noticed, of course. “Why so glum, nag?”

She wobbled in her seat. “Do they just … leave the piano in the dark all night?”

He shot her a delightedly incredulous look. “It’s a piano. S’not like it gets _lonely.”_

“You don’t know that!” she insisted. “If you have people playing you all night, and then they leave to go home, wouldn’t that … wouldn’t it be sad? I’d be sad, if I was – if I was the piano. I’d be lonely.”

“Jesus, babe; you really got that low a tolerance for alcohol?”

She did, probably; she didn’t drink often, and she almost never consumed as much as she had tonight. “Well, you know,” she said with a sweet grin. “It _was_ your treat.”

“Drinking me out of house and home, I get it.”

“That’s the idea.”

He shook his head, running his hand through his hair before covering his mouth with his palm. A few stubborn curls stuck straight up, catching the muted light from the bar. “Fuck; I can’t get over this shit.”

“Hm?”

“You having empathy for inanimate objects.”

“It’s not just any inanimate object!” she shot back. “It’s a piano, and that piano in particular practically belongs to you, since you play here so much.”

“Pretty sure Mike would disagree.”

“Okay, fine. It’s his piano since it’s his bar, but you have _some_ kind of ownership. Since you’re the one who plays it most. And you don’t even care that it just sits here all alone in the dark all night. Quiet and alone.”

“Stop making me feel guilty about a damn piano!”

She shot him her saddest, most pathetic face; big eyes and a heartbreaking frown. “ _All_ _alone.”_

He stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head, clearly disgusted with himself. “I can’t believe this is working on me.” Wobbling slightly, he got to his feet and strode across the room to confer with the proprietor, gesturing slightly as he spoke. At first she thought he’d just ask the man to leave a light on tonight, which was kind of sweet since she’d mostly been kidding, but to her surprise he leapt onto the half-stage with astonishing grace and lifted the lid of the keyboard, settling his long fingers over the keys.

“Uh, this one’s for that gorgeous nag over there,” he announced to the mostly empty room. “Who insisted I tuck in the piano before we turn in.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she clapped her palms to them. “ _Oh my god, you asshole!”_

But more thrilling was the fact that he’d called her gorgeous, and that he seemed to believe it – that he looked right at her from the stage, his own face flushed bright. And that before his fingers made the opening chord, he shot her that smug, horrible grin she loved more than she could ever put into words.

At first he played as seriously as he did any other night, treating each song with his typical frankness, but soon he threaded the line with small moments of musical hilarity; ridiculous dissonance, cluster chords. Aping the Monk, he’d explained to her one night – Thelonious Monk, one of his favorite pianists. Things that would have been mistakes under the hands of an inferior musician, but here they were purposeful and pointed; at each one, he would look up and make a grotesque face at her, contorting his features in comical dismay until she laughed aloud.

He was drunk, she knew, and happy; they were both caught in this oddly inevitable intimacy, and it made them brave. He set aside the ridiculous nonsense just long enough to play the most heartbreaking ballad she had ever heard, his right hand spinning the melody as if he would sing it, left threading poignant harmony beneath. She’d never heard this piece before, and in the years of their friendship she’d heard every piece in his repertoire; she’d memorized the sound of him nearly as well as he’d committed the feel of his music to his hands. She was caught and captured yet again; by the sight of him at the piano, eyes half-lidded, bathed in subdued light as his hands spun the sound that filled the room. Even sunk in the landscape of the music, he still wore that familiar grin. And she loved him; in that moment, she allowed herself to love him.

Of course, he was still Auruo, and he couldn’t resist a chance to be a shithead; just as the music trailed off to heartbreaking silence, he slammed his left palm flat on the keyboard and twisted his features in affected dismay, as if it’d been an accident. “Oh, _fuck,”_ he lamented. “ _Fuck_ me, I really fucked it. Christ. What a disaster.”

And the utter ridiculousness of the moment broke the last reserves of her control; she burst into laughter, covering her mouth with her hands in a futile attempt to stifle her giggling, but to no avail. She was drunk and overcome; before she could catch herself, she lost her balance and pitched out of her seat, sprawling on the sticky bar floor in a rumpled heap. The room spun from her supine position, whirling with gentle intent; like a carnival ride, the ones she rode in summer.

Auruo’s face materialized above her, wide-eyed. “Are you alright?”

She laughed at him. “You’re an _idiot.”_

“Now, _nag,”_ he said with faux-temerity. “That’s not very nice.”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

He snorted. “Come on, you lush. Sit up.”

“I can’t.”

“Yeah, you can.”

She shook her head, her hair sticking to the floor. “I’m too dizzy.”

“How much did you drink again?”

“…Three beers? Four. Something like that.”

He gently helped her into a sitting position, and she savored the feel of his hands on her back. “You’re such a fuckin’ lightweight.”

“I’m tiny! I’m a tiny person! That’s what happens when small people drink.”

“I knew a guy who was smaller than you and could put a whole keg away without getting tipsy.”

“You’re so full of crap, Auruo.”

“I swear on my mother!”

“Yeah? I’m going to tell her you said that.”

“Geez ….” He shot her an adorable scowl, but it quickly faltered when she nearly pitched over again. “Lemme take you home, alright?”

She fixed him with the sternest gaze she could muster while pitching on unsteady ground. “Yes, you better.”

He helped her into her jacket and made sure she had her purse, because she had imbibed far too much alcohol for someone of her frame; each step was as awkward and fumbling as if she attempted to walk in quicksand or a crumbling ruin. After helping her up, he heaved a great sigh and crouched a little in front of her. “Hop on.”

Normally this would have given her pause – any contact or closeness was a dangerous gamble, too much temptation for her to bear – but she had since decided she was tired of caution. She clambered gratefully onto his back, squealing a little when he hiked her up.

“Do I get to ride you home, then?” she said in his ear. It’d been an innocent question; only after spoken did she realize the hidden meaning.

He heard it instantly, of course; she felt him stiffen slightly under her palms as they stepped out into the night. “Hah … maybe you can try calling a cab first, huh?”

The cold might have sobered her any other day, but on Auruo’s back with her arms around his shoulders she was enveloped, protected from the biting chill. It had stopped raining while they’d been in the bar, fading to cold, starless night; a brisk breeze ruffled Auruo’s hair against her cheek. Overwhelmed, she buried her face against him, her nose tracing the line between shaved undercut and soft curls. He smelled like home, somehow both comforting and thrilling; a place she knew yet longed for.

He craned over his shoulder to look at her. “You doin’ alright back there?”

“You’re warm,” she mumbled against his neck. She waswarm too, in a way that had nothing to do with drunkenness. His hands were firm on her thighs, and she felt his thumb rub a tantalizing circle just to the left of her knee.

There were no cabs to be found this late at night and so far away from the city’s center, so he schlepped her thirty-two blocks from the bar to her apartment with only the most perfunctory complaint: “Maybe one of these days you’ll buy a fuckin’ car.”

“Why don’t you buy the ‘fuckin’ car,” she said, mimicking his accent.

“Because I had a car, a really good goddamn car, and the drive west killed it.”

They were silent for a moment, remembering Auruo’s noble ’92 Buick Skylark that had taken them nearly three thousand miles west and died the moment they’d parked in front of Auruo’s new apartment. It was a shitty car by everyone’s estimation except Auruo’s; he didn’t have a sentimental attachment to much, but he’d loved that hunk of junk.  

“Don’t you think it’s time to move on?” she said gently. “There are plenty of cars out there. You could get another Skylark, if that’s what’s important.”

“It wasn’t just _any_ Skylark, it was _my_ Skylark. It was the best fuckin’ car …”

She grinned, nuzzling his neck. “Sometimes I think you liked that care more than you like everyone else.”

“Almost everyone,” he corrected after a moment, hiking her up again.

Her stomach curled, sinuous warmth. She buried her face in his hair again, and before she could stop herself, pressed her lips to the back of his neck. She heard his breath catch, his hands trembling on her thighs.

When they reached her apartment, he was a little out of breath; she craned over his shoulder to punch in the foyer code before they slipped inside, a gust of stale air from the stairwell wafting her hair back. She made to slide off his back, but he shook his head. “I got ya.”

“You don’t have to cart me up three flights, Auruo.”

“It’s fine. Wouldn’t want you to miss a step and break your neck or something.”

She couldn’t really argue this logic; she was still a little tipsy, and more than a little unsteady by both the alcohol and the events of the evening, the realization that had settled deep in her bones, in every part of her.

He thunked up the stairs without stumbling once; either he wasn’t as drunk as she was, or he was much better at keeping his feet despite it. Maybe the latter, she thought, craning over his shoulder to look at his face. She liked the angle of his nose, the lines on either side of his mouth etched by excessive scowling (and sometimes smiling). Not for the first time that night, she thought about kissing him.

She thought about it when he fumbled for her keys and unlocked her apartment door, nudging it open with his foot (somehow, balancing both his weight and hers on one leg), and she thought about it when he shut the door and locked it just like she preferred, with the deadbolt and chain. She thought about it when he carried her silently through her dark apartment and slipped into her room, hitting the light with his elbow.

She thought about it when he gently laid her in bed, kneeling at the side to slip her shoes off. She saw his throat working as his fingers grazed her ankle, his brows furrowed low over lovely hazel. It was the most achingly intimate gesture she’d ever experienced in her life, and she could stand it no longer; when he stood to leave, she grabbed wildly for his hand. “Come here,” she whispered.

“I – I’m just getting you some water.”

“I’ll get it later.”

His lips quirked. “Nah, you won’t. You’ll forget and be hungover tomorrow.”

“I don’t care,” she insisted, sitting up and shucking out of her coat, rumpling her wrinkled blouse in the process. “Stay with me.”

He hesitated, and it suddenly occurred to her that everything he’d done tonight could have easily been him humoring her, letting her save a bit of face. She’d foolishly thought his interest was reciprocal, and that he was on the same page – just as taut and wanting, just as eager to move beyond the lines of cautious friendship. She was stupid to have thought so. “Never mind,” she whispered miserably, turning away from him and burying her flaming face in the pillows. 

“Wh-? No! Petra, n—“ He took a breath and slipped out of his shoes, crawling quickly into bed with her. Careful, still, not to touch. “No, dummy. C’mere.”

“You – you don’t have to, if you don’t –“

“I _do._ Christ, are you serious?! I –“ He lay on his side and gently tipped her over, so she flopped onto her back. “It’s just … you’re really drunk.”

“I’m not,” she argued. “Not so much anymore. Not really.”

“Uh huh …”

“I’m not! I’ll prove it, alright? I’ll – I’ll do a backflip.”

He snorted. “You can’t even do a backflip when you’re sober.”

“I can so!” She studied his face in the darkness, tucking a wayward curl of hair back. “I could in high school, anyway.”

“Hm.” He smirked. “I’d have liked to know you in high school.”

“You’d have laughed at me even more than you do now.”

“Exactly.”

They were quiet for a long while. She listened to the occasional bleat of traffic below her window, and the sound of his breathing, so steady, solid ground. She could nearly sense his pulse in the stillness, the racing of his heart, in thrilling unison with her own. And she was drunk, but not in the expected way, not on the alcohol; she was drunk on possibility, and on a surge of bravery that thrilled in her heart, loosened the truth. She was drunk on the nearness of him, and how badly she wanted to breach the distance between them with a kiss. Drunk on seven years of wanting, now at their end.

With trembling fingers, she traced the curve of his lower lip, focusing on the gorgeous reality of it. He was so close, in every possible way; she really could, if she leaned forward just a little. She wanted to.

His throat worked as he swallowed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m thinking about kissing you,” she breathed in reply.

He swallowed again, a little desperately. “ _Fuck_.”

“Is that … no?”

“Jesus. _No_.”

She couldn’t help a little smile. “So it’s a no on no?”

He caught the reference. “It’s a … look, Petra.  I – fucking – you probably don’t even know how long I’ve wanted to …”

“A long time?” she whispered, wiggling closer. “Since the drive west?”

“Since I first saw you,” he managed after a moment, trembling a little under her hands. “In fuckin’ Chemistry, with your neat little notebooks and perfectly organized pens. Not like in a gross way. You weren’t – you weren’t interested, and I liked being around you and I liked being your friend so I just figured … you know. I was happy. I _liked_ you. Still do. And I didn’t – I didn’t want to be pushy and fuck things up by wanting you too, so I just …”

“You wanted me then?”

“I can’t even tell you. I’d – alright, look. I’ll tell you about it later, if you still want to hear about it, but my point is I want to … this is so incredibly dumb. But I don’t want this to be because you’re drunk and feeling reckless, or – or whatever. I …” He colored. “I don’t want to take advantage.”

That impossibly sweet, earnest man! She could have kissed him in that moment; she still wanted to, in fact. His lips were so close. “That’s not --!”

“I know what you’re saying and I believe you, but it’ll – god, this is stupid. Don’t tell anyone I’m this stupid, alright? The girl of my goddamn dreams is telling me she wants me and I’m sitting here telling her to sit on it for a night.”

“That’s what you’re saying?”

He closed his eyes, as if to fortify himself. “If you still … if you still want me in the morning, then … then good. Then I’ll kiss you stupid and more.”

“Is that a promise?”

He didn’t answer, instead craning forward just slightly until his nose brushed her cheek. For a second she thought that all his talk had been a last effort to keep himself from giving in, but instead he pressed his lips gently to the corner of her mouth. And such control; his lips trembled, and his hand slid up her arm to cup her shoulder, but he made no further move. She trembled too, a slim branch in a storm. She’d been kissed by her fair share of people – most of them boys, most of them pushy and demanding, their rough hands taking whatever they could. But this breath of a kiss, as gentle as spring, rocked her like a hurricane.

She said the first thing she could think of, though her head was spinning and her heart raced madly against her ribs. “Did you really want me the moment we met?”

“Christ.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, dummy.”

“Huh … I didn’t get the impression you liked me much.”

“You drove me fuckin’ nuts. You still do, if we’re being honest. But … I dunno. Dunno how to explain it.”

She took his nervous hand and held it to her chest. “Try?”

“You were just so … interesting. And you cared about everything, stuff that I thought was too small to care about. You had goals and you were gonna see ‘em done. And – ha. It’s nice thinking about that person you were tonight, since today you managed to accomplish one of those goals, and you’re still going at it. Even though you get kinda tired and serious sometimes. You’re still doing it.”

That warmth filled her stomach, settled in her chest. “I didn’t know you felt that way …”

“Yeah, well … it’s not exactly easy for me to talk about this shit.”

“Why are you, then?”

“I had a few drinks … ‘m feeling a little giddy.”

“Giddy?!”

“Yeah, nag. Feeling kinda hopeful.” He ducked his head in a nervous gesture. “Though I dunno if I should. You could change your mind in the morning.”

“I’m not going to,” she told him gently. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“Ha …” His fingers tightened within hers, shifting to thread together. She almost thought she could feel his heartbeat in the palm of his hand. “What made it for you?”

She tipped her head forward, brow pressed to his own. “Hm?”

“What made up your mind?”

She couldn’t blame this on drunkenness –as the night had wore on, as they’d forged through the cold she felt the haze of alcohol fade, and only the deeper haze remained. The sum of him. “I’m tired of pretending you don’t affect me.”

He let out a shaky laugh. “I affect you, huh?”

“So much …” She bit her lip, a little shy now that she could no longer hide. “I always want to talk to you, even when you’re annoying me. I get happy and flustered when you text me all the time. I got – oh my god. I got so jealous when you had that girlfriend.”

“She wasn’t my girlfriend.”

“You went on a few dates.”

He shook his head, curly hair brushing her brow. “I was – fuck. I was trying to get over you, alright? I fuckin’ – I figured if I started seeing other people, it’d be easier to forget about you.”

“Oh my god…”

“Don’t –“ He drew back a little. “Jesus. I’m serious, I’m not gonna kiss you until the morning.”

She was quiet a moment, tracing the line of his jaw. “Did you like her very much? Was she … I don’t know.”

He heaved a long sigh through his nose. “She was … nice, I guess. I dunno. I got kinda discouraged, ‘cause she was so … _boring._ I’d think about you the whole time, which was just … shitty to her. Now that I think about it. But I’d think about you and how I’m never bored when I’m with you, how I always feel like I’m hanging on for dear life, going where you take me. How we’re always fighting or laughing about something, and I’m just … always right there. I never want to be anywhere else.”

“Auruo …”

A shiver passed through them, and he shook his head; tight, desperate. “Not yet.”

And she respected this – it was important to him, that it be done right. They had waited for so long, and she could give him that.  “We don’t really fight,” she ventured with a little smile.  

“We sure as hell do.”

“Nope. There’s a difference between fighting and what we actually do.”

“What would you call it, then?”

“Spirited disagreements.”

He laughed at that. “What a bunch of bullshit.”

 “It’s not,” she said with a stubborn little frown, kicking at his legs. “ _Anyway.”_

“Yeah, anyways. You were telling me how you think about me all the time.”

“Not _all_ the time,” she argued. “I have a job and a life outside of you, okay? I have interests. You’re not my entire universe.”

“Thank god for that.” He shot her a devious smirk. “I’m not in it for some little tag along. Christ, that’s something else about that girl, she didn’t really have anything going on for her. I – it never seemed like we’d end up getting into shit together, like partners. It was like she’d just be following me around, and who the fuck wants that?”

 “Some people aren’t opinionated,” she said diplomatically. “It doesn’t make them bad, just …”

“Just boring.”

She swatted him. “I can’t believe I was jealous of this poor girl … now I feel kinda sorry for her.”

“Sorry!”

“Well, yeah! You spent the whole time thinking about someone else, and you didn’t even bother to get to know her or anything.”

“Petra,” he said seriously. “I tried really hard. I can’t even – I can’t even describe how bad I tried to make this bullshit work. I was – I was half nuts, out of my mind. You’d done something, like … I dunno. We were eating out at that Thai place downtown and you … you were laughing, and you were just so – so fuckin’ gorgeous I couldn’t even breathe. And it’s always like that; you do shit that just knocks me right out. I can’t ever breathe right around you. And I wanted to get over you, because I was convinced you weren’t interested, so I – I tried really fuckin’ hard, Petra. I’m telling you …”

She listened to his tirade with a growing sense of gratitude, mingling sweetly with tender regard. “Is it awful if I tell you I’m glad it didn’t work?”

“Nah … I’m glad it didn’t either. If you’re – if this is how it’s gonna – fuck. If you …”

“It was bad for me too, you know,” she cut in, taking mercy on him.

“Bad?”

She nodded. “You’d do something, like rub your mouth with the flat of your thumb, like _that,_ or you’d say something sweet and thoughtful when you forgot about being cool, and I’d think about kissing you for days. While I was in bed.”

His free hand slid from her shoulder to waist, fingers going taut. “Jesus Christ.”

“You’re always touching things – running your hands through your hair, rubbing your fingers on your knee when you get anxious. And I’d think about you touching me. Not even sex, though that's part of it.”

He couldn’t seem to handle this level of frankness, and in daylight she probably wouldn’t have been able to either. “Fuck …”

“I’m just talking about being in your arms. Being held by you. Just being close, without being worried that it’d cross a line or make things awkward. I already talk to you and know so much about you, but there's this ... place beyond I don't really know yet. And I want to. So badly, Auruo. I didn’t –“ She trailed off, biting her lip. “I didn’t want to drive you away.”

She felt naked beside him, though she still wore her work clothes; skirt rucked midway up her thighs, blouse rumpled by the day’s wear. And for a moment, she thought she had confessed something too deep; that the very fear of driving him away would be the thing to do it. But he reached for her, cupping her face and skimming her cheek with his thumb, and his touch awoke shivering fire. “You could never drive me away.”

They did not speak for the rest of the night. They watched each other, and listened when it became too difficult to keep their eyes open. She’d learned these physical realities over seven years of knowing and wanting; now it seemed his breathing was a song, so much like the music he spun with that roguish grin, the mask above his tender heart.

It would be disingenuous to say she wasn’t afraid. She was no bastion of bravery, of iron-clad will. She looked both ways when crossing the street, and again for good measure. She always double-checked locking her door, because the city could be dangerous and she was cautious. As she slipped into dream, she feared that such careless honesty would be the end of them – they’d progress as lovers, and it would be too much. It would end in fiery disagreement, and not even the barest shell of friendship would remain.

Yet as she hovered between waking and sleep, she had a vague premonition of the future; they would continue on, side by side. They would grow together.

~

Soft light peeked through her eyelids, and she squinted as it sent a throb of pain through her beaten skull. _Of course_ ; she’d forgotten the glass of water, and now she was dehydrated and hungover. The events of last night were slow to come back to her; the settled like a fine cloud in her thoughts, filling her with warmth – they took the shape of a dream, too fantastic to be real.

But Auruo was still there, his arm slung around her waist, brow tipped against hers. His sleep-mused hair tickled her skin. Unbidden she felt a smile curve her lips, until it seemed as if she smiled with every fiber of her being, every thrilling molecule. She could hardly breathe, and hardly move; transfixed by her anticipation, the precipice they stood upon together. He’d wanted to wait until the morning, and here it was. God, here it was.

He woke slowly, bleary eyes focusing on hers. A soft groan escaped him as he stirred, savoring the beautiful reality of limbs tangled, the cadence of heartbeat and breath in this soft morning.  She noticed a flush of color darken his cheeks, as if he’d caught her naked again. Perhaps in a way, he had. They’d caught each other.

“H-hey,” he said with a sheepish smile. “How are you –?”

She kissed him. When their lips met he made a little surprised sound, but before long he met her kiss with the same intensity, the same need. Seven years of it. He kissed her and she kissed him, and that was their second beginning.


	14. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for Petruo Week, day 3: Vulnerability

She begins the day with a kiss that torments, that lights a fire which will consume to its end, and that’s how his crisis begins. He should be accustomed to her intensity and passion, since they’ve known each other nearly half their lives, but it still takes him by surprise. It’s still strange that she finds him worthy of that kind of attention.

He’s adjusting the 3DMG straps over his thighs when she pushes him down onto the bed and straddles him, one slim hand sliding up his chest. “What –?” he blurts, but her lips crash hard against his, and the rest of his stunned protest dies before he can speak it. She kisses him like she’s got a bone to pick, like it’s the conclusion to one of their many superficial arguments; their preferred method of siphoning off the frustration of keeping the reality of their relationship secret.

She captures his lower lip between her teeth, sucking insistently as her hands card desperately in his hair, and he moans, hips bucking against her. Already the haze descends; he’ll lose himself in the sweetness of her mouth and the scent of her hair if he doesn’t pull back, but she grinds a slow circle above him and he loses the power of critical thought.

“Petra …”

“Hm.” Her teeth graze his lip again, and it sends a rush of feeling through him.

By some miracle, he has enough of his wits to protest. “I – we can’t – we’re late –“

“Oh, I know we can’t,” she says; utterly serious. This is her way; never coy, never cruel with her tricks. When she smiles, it’s sweet as rain. “I just need to tide myself over.”

“You--!”

She kisses him again. “That’s okay, right?”

“Goddammit, nag …”

He’ll be lucky if he gets anything done. They have a busy day ahead; Levi wants them on the course practicing a combined maneuver, which will of course require the most absolute focus. But at the moment, he can only focus on the feel of her hips turning circles above him, her lips against his, the softness of her skin under his needing hands.

“You get off on driving me crazy,” he finally mumbles against her open mouth.

“That’s not my intention,” she disagrees. “But I want to try something new tonight.”

He cranes up to look at her. “New?”

“You’ll see,” she tells him, pushing back a curl of hair from his brow. “I mean, you’ll get to decide if you want to. But you’ll see soon.”

“You’re not even gonna tell me?!”

“I want you to think about it,” she says, kissing a sweet line along his jaw and nuzzling his neck when he shivers.

“Do you want me to break my neck today?!”

“You’ll be alright. You’re good when you’re frustrated.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ll be fine.” She kissed him again, long and slow. “You’re good. You’re ‘the best’, isn’t that right?”

It wasn’t really, but that was the face he put toward the world, to better hide what lay beneath. He squints up at her as she deftly dismounts from his lap, smoothing her shirt over her stomach with prim, efficient movements. “Sure am,” he says, and he follows her to the door. “Surprised you think so.”

“You shouldn’t be,” she tells him, nudging his feet. Before they leave his room, however, she tugs him down by the cravat and kisses him again, her lips hot and wanting against his, and as he buries one shaking hand in her hair he understands that her reserve is part of a game she’s decided – she wants him, and it makes her vulnerable. It strips them both.

~

So begins the most frustrating day in recent memory. She is the very picture of soldierly devotion on duty, and by all appearances he is too, which makes it all the more difficult. She doesn’t tease him openly while they eat breakfast with Gunter and Erd, or when they report to the course; she doesn’t shoot him any meaningful looks and winks and nods, which a lesser person might have done. She is every inch the perfect soldier, and it drives him mad.

They agreed to this, long ago – before they’d begun, they decided that whatever they did together in the privacy of their rooms would never comprise their ability to perform as members of the Survey Corps. And they’d reiterated this promise when tapped for the Special Operations squad; now, they truly were elites, and their behavior must reflect this. In the end, their shared vow of service was important, something they had aspired to since they were children, and nothing would get in the way.

But that is easier said than done, especially when the memory of her searing kiss burns against his lips, through chaotic thoughts. He watches as she sails through the air like a sharpened blade, her focused expression cutting him from half the compound away. And it is inevitable; he thinks of her naked, thinks of her shivering above him with her lips on his neck, turning slow circles.

And that’s how it begins; with something as simple as mere desire. He’s anxious for tonight, and the thought comes to him on a haze of wanting; why wait? Why hide?

He knows – they’re soldiers, there are regulations regarding personal relationships. They’re the elite of the elite, and it’s not allowed. But it’s an insidious thing; the longer they work on the course, the more that errant thought consumes him, until it’s outstripped desire. Why _do_ they have to hide?

He hovers at the platform, quivering as the heat in his gut spread, merciless; before it can betray him, he grapples the broadside on the other end of the course and rockets through the air, intent on his target – fifteen meters, the pad beckoning. He’d done this a thousand times before, yet today his cut is weak and badly placed; he nearly breaks one of his blades on the exit, and that never ends well.

“Bossard!” Levi snaps from the ground, sharp features narrowed in annoyance. “Pay attention!”

His ‘Yessir!’ is less a reply and more a growl of frustration. When he passes Petra in midair, he could swear her fingers graze his shoulder. 

_~_

By the time they break for supper, he is beyond frustrated. A thousand conflicting thoughts jockey for position in his beaten skull. He forces himself to pick at the stew cooling in his bowl, but desire blunts his appetite; he _wants_ her, more than food, more than sleep. Any attempt made to control the wandering of his thoughts is met with failure; if he focuses on Erd’s nattering, it’s not long until he remembers the morning and her promise and his slow questioning, and then it’s all he can think about.

Under the table, his leg bounces in a futile effort to siphon off some of his frustration. How many minutes until they’re dismissed for the night? An eternity, probably. An endless age.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Petra asks him, brows furrowed.

He stares. There’s no guile in her expression; she actually has no idea what he’s thinking. He should probably be glad that it’s not as obvious as he fears, but at the moment this lack of transparency only adds to his frustration. _Why do we have to hide? Why should we?_ “I’m not hungry,” he mutters to his hands. “Just forget it.”

“I will not! We did a lot of work today; you need to eat,” she insists. She’s got that stubborn, wet-cut steel look, which means he’s in for it, one way or another.

But he’s just as stubborn, and already twisted into knots by need. “Will you just leave it? This shit’s disgusting and I’m not hungry.”

“You’re full of it.”

“Geez, Petra. Can you give me a break for one day?”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” she fires back, eyes blazing. “I’m worried about you, so automatically I’m being insufferable, is that it?”

Gunter rubs his temples. “Can you two just …?”

“Yeah, that’s it!” Auruo cuts in. “I got a mother already, I don’t need you to act like one!”

“I’m --! That’s not what I’m –“ She fixes him with an expression of deepest ire, but for a moment he thinks that her gaze lingers around his mouth. _Is she …?_  “Only you’d get defensive over someone being concerned about you.”

“If I’m defensive, it’s ‘cause you’re being pretty fuckin’ pushy over something that doesn’t matter.”

“Will you just – ugh!”

In some small corner of his mind, he knows that this is a disproportionate reaction from the both of them. Deprived of each other and forced to pretend that they are only comrades, their frustration manifests as endless bickering. As usual, it doesn’t take long for them to reach their limit, but what surprises him is that Petra is the one who breaks; with a little huff, she stands and comes around to his side of the table, yanking him out of his seat.

“What are you -?!”

“I need to talk to you!”

He can’t be sure, but when she hauls him out of the room, he thinks that Erd and Gunter breathe a collective sigh of relief. _Assholes._

He should be angry, but as she yanks him forward he can’t help but to feel both tenderness and frustration, curling in his gut like warmth, like need. It’s unnatural, what they do; every day they master their feelings and put forward the face of a soldier, and the longer they do so the more difficult it becomes. He has an idle thought; will there be a day when they forget what it’s like to be anything but their deception?

By the time she finally nudges him into her room, the fight’s left him completely. He doesn’t wait for her to lay into him for being an asshole, which he richly deserves; he takes her hand and pulls her quickly against his chest, twining his arms around her. And after a moment, she relaxes into his embrace.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asks, muffled by his chest.

“I dunno …” Pretending, guarding against weakness. The act they must perform, for the sake of duty. “I’m --”

She shrugs slightly, but he can tell he’d hurt her with his sniping. “It’s fine. I baited you.”

“It’s _not_ fine.”

Finally, she pulls away from his chest, smiling a little. “Come here.”

“I can’t get any more here.”

She rolls her eyes at him, and gives him a little push toward the bed. “Come _here.”_

They settle, as they have a thousand times before; shucking their capes and jackets, deftly slipping out of their boots. And of course, the long, complicated dance that is removing 3DMG. He flops onto the bed and she curls into his side, slinging one leg across his to leverage herself closer. Her arm twines around his waist; before he can protest, she untucks his shirt and slides her cool hands inside, skimming across his stomach.

“F-fuck!”

“Shh.”

“Your hands are fuckin’ freezing! What, you stick ‘em in a snowbank before this?”

“Don’t be such a baby,” she rebukes him, grinning.

“Who’s the baby? Let’s see how you like it.” He retaliates in kind, shoving his hands up her shirt and cupping her back, and she muffles her shriek against his chest, shivering delightedly against him.

“You jerk.”

“ _Shh_ ,” he chides mockingly. “ _Don’t be such a baby_.”

“Oh, you are the worst. I don’t even know why I let you in my room.”

“Uh huh. Probably ‘cause I treat you good.” He flashes her his most incorrigible smirk. “’Cause I treat you _right.”_

“You drive me insane.”

“In a good way.”

“Mm.”

They lapse into silence; he skims his fingers up and down her back until each taut muscle goes loose and she sags in his arms, a deep sigh escaping her. And they’ve done this many times over the years, so the novelty’s been replaced by tender intimacy; he knows exactly how she responds to his touch, and there is both fascination and comfort in it. He marvels; the way a battle-borne woman can go soft as silk just from a caress. 

Again, he wonders at some kind of life where they could be obvious: where he could grab her hand whenever the impulse arose, where they could fuck wherever they pleased and be as loud as they wanted – which would be more a gift to her than him, he thinks with a stupid grin.  Maybe if he hadn’t taught himself to keep the mask, he’d be better at saying what mattered.

She traces idle circles on his chest, her hands warming as he does. “What’s gotten into you today?” she asks again, her tone unbearably gentle.

And he figures that he should for once in his miserable life choose to be vulnerable for her, if for no one else. “I’m … sick of hiding.”

“Hm?”

He buries his face in her hair, overwhelmed by the effort of honesty. “I’m sick of pretending. Aren’t you? I can’t stand this shit – I get so … fuckin’ touchy and frustrated ‘cause all I really want to do is just … be around you. And we can’t, I know we can’t and I’m not saying – I’m not saying you have to. Or that we should, ‘cause I know it’s a bad idea, for a lot of reasons. I’m just saying … I’m just saying I’m sick of pretending for other people when it comes to you.”

She pulls back, her amber eyes wide; for once, at a loss for words.

“What?”

“I just …” She shakes her head, and he tucks back a strand of hair that’s come loose from behind her ear. “You pretend about everything, Auruo.”

“Well … maybe I’m sick of pretending about this. About _you_.” His shoulders hitch once, a little nervously. “I – I mean … don’t make it into some big thing. It’s not like I’m saying I’m gonna start going around and –“

“Being honest,” she cuts in dryly. “Being as earnest as you are.”

“Goddammit. I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

“Auruo, please. I’m just … I’m a little surprised.” She captures her lower lip between her teeth in a sympathetic, thoughtful gesture. “I thought you liked pretending,” she adds, almost too quietly to be heard.

He stares at her, for a moment to incredulous to speak. “Who the fuck likes to pretend?! Who likes this shit? Likes … likes being such a piece of shit that they can’t even … and it’s not even about pretending, I don’t even know what to say half the fuckin’ time, and when I do it always comes out wrong, so I might as well pretend about most things, alright? Might as well act like I know what I’m doing, otherwise people’ll see for sure that I don’t.”

She cups his cheek, skimming the delicate skin under his eye, rimmed with shadow, and the gesture is so tender that he has to catch his breath. “Auruo …”

“I’m—fuck. I – I dunno, Petra.”

She leans up to kiss his cheek. “Where is this coming from?”

“Nope.”

“Come on.” Like this morning, she clambers deftly onto his lap, craning down so their faces are only inches apart. “You have to tell me.”

“I don’t have to do shit.”

“Please?”

He huffs, annoyed and charmed, and annoyed that she’s charmed him. “I thought about this morning all day.  I dunno if that’s what you were going for, but that’s -- I got … jeez. I got fuckin’ wound up, alright? But then I just started thinking that not only am I not really allowed to do any of it, I’m not even allowed to touch you or hold your hand or even – or even look at you like I l- like I care about you. Which I …”

She threaded her hands through his hair. “Go on …”

“Which I do, dammit. Fuck.”

She knows him so well, knows that these lapses of honesty are only facilitated by tenderness and trust, by the weight over her above him, the assurance in her hands. She presses a light kiss to the side of his nose and lets it linger, smiling when he shivers. “I’m just … stunned, I guess.”

“That I’m not a completely dishonest piece of shit?!”

“Auruo, please,” she chides gently. “Why are you so defensive? It’s just me.”

 _Just_ Petra; as if there is such a thing. His lips twist incredulously. “’Cause this shit ain’t easy for me to talk about.”

“I know, I know. I’m just … I’m sorry.” She rests her brow against his, holding his face between her burning hands. “I just –“

“You just what.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way … about me.”

He can scarcely believe this. “What?!” he yelps, so loudly she covers his gaping mouth with one hand.

“God, Auruo, don’t look at me like that. Maybe I was being silly. I just think sometimes you like that we have to keep it quiet, that you’d be ashamed if you had the opportunity to be upfront.”

He blinks. “Ashamed … of _you?”_

“Please don’t look at me like I’m crazy,” she says quietly. “You’re ashamed of everything else about yourself – why wouldn’t you be ashamed of me too?”

“Because you’re – jeez, Petra! I can’t believe you could get me so wrong!”

“Shh.”

“No, I won’t _SHH,_ I’m – fuck! You _aren’t_ me, you’re – and you think you’re this big shameful secret just ‘cause I – ‘cause I think I’m –“

No use; he still can’t say any of this, even though at this moment his need is greatest.

“I’m sorry,” she soothes him, alarmed by the strength of his reaction. “It’s just insecurity, alright? I’m not confident all the time either, you know.”

“No, Petra, I – “ It’s at that moment he realizes he must tell her; now, after all these years, he must make the contents of his heart known, otherwise she’ll go on thinking that he’s ashamed of her, that he delights in their circumstances because it allows him to get off without advertising to the world their relationship. And he could – he _should._ At the end of it all, despite his reticence and his eternal struggle with thought and expression, he wants to.

“If we could – if I could just yell off some rooftop about you I _would._ I’d go up to anyone who’d listen, and even people who wouldn’t, and just point you out and – you know. I wouldn’t ever shut the fuck up about it. And I’d do it ‘cause I –“

The words catch as they always do, but this time he forces them past his unwilling, coward heart. This time he chooses to be vulnerable, bare and complete, before her. “’Cause I-- I l-love you. Alright?”

His heart’s racing madly against his ribs, and a cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck. Stomach knots, badly enough that he might have been sick if he’d managed to eat any dinner. For him, honesty is excruciating work; to bear oneself the most miserable undertaking there is. As the silence grows longer, he remembers why he keeps this shit to himself in the first place; it’s better to swallow, better to hide, better to construct a mask, so that if he’s judged at least it’s not anything genuine.

But her eyes grow bright, and a smile like nothing he’s ever seen curves her generous mouth. She actually laughs, which confounds him. “Auruo …”

“God; if you’re gonna tell me you –“

A flash of annoyance, though it’s a tender thing. “You’d know if you let me finish.” And before he can retort, she kisses him, long and slow. “I love you. Of course.”

“O-of course?!”

“Yes. It’s obvious.”

“It really isn’t,” he mutters. Her reply eases the knot of anxiety taut in his chest; he lets out a trembling breath, one he’d held for years.  “You have no idea. You –  when we’re out and about you act like you can hardly stand to look at me.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“Well it sure ain’t warm, I can tell you that. Like you’re always annoyed with me … or something.”

“Well, I’m usually annoyed with you when we’re on duty,” she says with a bit of her old naggish intensity. “You are so insufferable sometimes…”

“Yeah, well. It’s because –“

“I know. It’s easier.”

And there’s no better relief; that she understands him so well. Not perfectly, since he’s got to confess the large truths for himself. But their years of knowing, of friendship and intimacy, do their work. With a sigh, he buries his face against the crook of her neck and breathes in the scent of her; sweat and horses and grass. “I love you, alright?” he says again. “God. Sometimes it makes me sick how much I love you.”

“It drives me insane,” she echoes with a smile. “I love you so much it makes me crazy.”

“Don’t blame your crazy shit on me,” he mumbles, muffled by her hair.

She swats him. “Just because I love you doesn’t mean you get to act like a jerk.”

“Mhm.”

They are quiet for a long time; instead of words, they touch with idle comfort. Her fingers are deft in his hair, tracing shivering lines against his neck, faster and faster until he groans. Carefully, he grips her waist, savoring the feel of her muscles shifting under his hands – like they would on the course, or as she rode him. That familiar flush heats his face once again, and he shifts, feeling her knees tighten against his hips.

“So you’d brag about me, if you could?” she whispers against his ear, her hips turning a slow, tortuous circle. “What would you say?”

“I dunno that I’d _say_ anything,” he manages. “That never ends right.”

“Sometimes it does. It has tonight, for example.”

“Has it?!”

She smiles mysteriously. “So what would you do then? If you could do anything.”

“I’d …” Now that he thinks about it, the prospect of public displays of affection is more than a little stressful. But so too is their current situation; forced into silence, forced to bicker and banter, as anything else would give too much away. “I dunno that it’d be that much, nag. I’m not good at being – not good at putting this shit out there.”

“You sure aren’t,” she agrees, before kissing him gently.

“But if I could, I’d … dunno. If I could, I’d maybe just grab your hand. When we’re on the field or something, after something happens. I’d grab your hand just to feel it and know you were fine.”

Her delighted manner fades; amber hues darken as she remembers. “If I could kiss you to know you were okay, I would. Waiting until we’re back is …”

“Bullshit.”

“Torture.”

“Really?!” He should have figured she felt so strongly; even in the safety of headquarters she ran hot with passions and kindness. Beyond the Wall, this only amplified; it made her formidable in nearly all respects.

“Yeah.” She grips his shoulders more tightly, and an errant shiver ripples up her back, one that has nothing to do with pleasure or comfort. “If you think it’s frustrating to keep everything quiet, think about how it must be for me.”

He remembers the years they spent in training, struggling to swallow it all for the sake of their goal, before he leans into her moving hands. “You got a point …”

“But I think …”

“Hm?”

“I think as long as we can be honest here,” She nudges one of the pillows with her knee, “then it’s alright.”

“Mm.”

“Alright?”

“Mm … alright.”

They don’t speak again, because she kisses him with that familiar fire, and he’s storm-tossed, fire-bound; he’s caught by the intensity of her words, and the way they heat her lips. And as she pulls at the buttons of his shirt, and as he fumbles blindly for her pants, leaning hard into her mouth, he thinks dimly that he can manage that; every night, he can manage to be vulnerable for her, above all else.  


	15. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> day six for petruo week: longing

_So I’ll start out with some kind of explanation, since you’ll probably be wondering why the fuck you’re getting this note from me when I could just walk down the hall and tell you what’s on my mind. Except this isn’t really something I can say easily, and I’m not even sure I’ll be able to say it right here either. Like it’s too big, or it’s got too many parts, and if I’m not careful I’ll leave out something important. I know I’d end up leaving something out if I tried to say it to your face, so here I am trying to get it down this way. With scraps, since you know – paper ain’t cheap._

_And I have to try and get this right even though I’m not a good writer, and I don’t got any fancy words for this shit. I have trouble with anything deeper than pretending. Starts feeling like stripping off skin and letting people pick at your bones, and all the squishy parts. But, I mean – not physically. That tangled mess of crap that lives in your brain. Or least the one that lives in mine._

_Fuck, that sounds stupid, even on paper. How the fuck does anyone do this shit?!_

_*several lines are scratched out*_

_~_

_Alright, gonna try again._

_To set up some kind of rule here, I’m going to be completely honest with you – for once in my life, I’m going to tell you everything, every single fucking thing, and not hold anything back, even if it’s gross or strange, because we’ve been friends for almost ten years yet there’s this side to me you don’t even know, this massive fucking truth that’s as much a part of me as my body, and you have no idea. It’s a lie, and every day that I don’t tell you just eats at me. What kind of person are you, Auruo Bossard? What kind of friend?_

_I mean -- It’s my fault for hiding it, and I’m not blaming you for not reading my mind or whatever. I tried to keep it from you by acting stupid and loud, saying one thing when I thought another, hoping that you’d get tired of my shit and just forget. I’m not proud of it. I’m really not._

_You’re probably starting to get an idea of what I got on my mind._

_So … alright. I love you. Blah blah, I can just hear you saying ‘well I love you too!’ because we’ve been friends for so long and it’s natural to love a friend. And I – yeah. That’s part of it. But I’m in love with you._

_God, this is so fucking weird even just to write! I’m forcing myself not to scratch it out. There it is. It’s on paper and off my chest. It’s out in the world now. I have this weird, paranoid suspicion that even just writing it will make it obvious; like you’ll hear it or sense it, even before I get a chance to give this to you. Which is fucking stupid, of course. I know that. I’m not completely insane._

_Maybe you’re wondering how or why (or what the fuck) and I’ll be honest – I’m still trying to piece that together myself. I’m not too smart so it’s taken awhile. Maybe it’s not a thing that has a reason, it just_ is. _It’d still be true if I understood it or not, so I don’t know why it bothers me so much that I don’t understand._

_You’re just … you’re Petra. You’re my best friend and I love you and I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw you, and every moment since then I’ve loved you more. More than I even thought was possible to love a person. And I just –_

_I wanted to tell you this because –_

_Fuck, Petra. I would marry you if you wanted. I joke about it because I’m a stupid piece of shit, and that’s the only way I CAN say it. And I say it at all because if I don’t I end up feeling like I’ll burst. It’s something that demands to be known, and I’ve tried my hardest not to know it or see it because I’m sure you don’t feel the same way._

_But I can’t stand lying to you, and I can’t do this shit anymore. Lie to you, keep it quiet._

_Fuck, this is stupid._

_I’m sorry for ruining everything by going off and falling in love with you, because it would have been fine if we’d just carried on as usual. Like friends, you know? Just friends. You ARE my friend, you’re – honestly you’re one of the only people in the world I can stand. You’re the best person I know. I’ve said that before, right?_

_~_

_I was thinking about it more today, while we were training. You were in full out nag-mode, and I laughed at you for it, even though I’m thinking to myself how nice it sounds, when your voice gets like that. I bundle it up to think about it later, hold it and remember. I tell myself you wouldn’t bother if you didn’t give a shit, and you giving any kind of shit about me is the best thing in the world. Even if it’s not the kind I wish for, it’s something. It’s more than I deserve._

_I’m a starving man that’s lived too long on scraps, pieces you throw away without thinking. It makes you sound cruel and careless, and of course you aren’t. I’m just foolish, Petra._

_Anyway, I was thinking about it more, trying to figure out the root of it all, ‘cause maybe if I found the root I could yank it out and forget it’d ever been there. That sounds like a hard way to treat a feeling like love, ‘cause you're always thinking it’s something soft. That’s what I expected anyway, seeing my parents – it’s so easy for them. It’s a steady place, maybe ‘cause they know it and can trust it, and it’s been there between them for a long time._

_(Sometimes I think about what it’d be like to have that kind of thing with you, Petra. Would it ever be a steady place? Or it would it still burn me up? Would it be both?)_

_I was remembering when we were kids, and you stopped those assholes from beating the piss out of me. I couldn’t breathe right and they’d knocked my head a few times, so I couldn’t see right either. And when I looked up and saw you, I didn’t see you right at first – you were just this streak of light. Red hair and a yellow dress, so small and talking so big. Shaking because you were so mad. I loved you right away. Not from looking, but listening. From what you did._

_God, you were great. You still are. You just barged right into my life and grabbed my hand and started taking me places, and you’re still doing it. And I think about that all the time; how bleak everything would be if you weren’t around. How colorless. How could I not love you, Petra? It was inevitable. It was always going to happen to me. It’ll always be true._

_~_

_I’m laughing at myself (someone ought to) because I thought this was going to be a small note. I must not even know who I am. Now that I started, it’s all coming out. There’s a lot to say, anyway. A lot I’ve been keeping to myself over the years. It’s like in those old stories from one of your dad’s books. Where before everything went to shit you’d go to priests to confess the bad things you did, otherwise god or the gods or whatever wouldn’t forgive you. Well, here’s my confession –_

_-I’ve loved you for a long time._

_-I wanted to marry you that first day. I know I was twelve, and what the fuck does a twelve year old know about marriage? I still wanted to._

_-I had this thought early on, that the way you laugh is better than music. What a stupid thing, right? I haven’t ever been able to shake it. These days you don’t laugh so much at anything I say or do, but when I get a chance to hear it I can’t help but grin like a dope._

_-I had another thought, that when we came to the Survey Corps you’d end up finding some person and shacking up with them, and I’m always of two minds about it. On the one hand, it drives me fucking crazy thinking about someone else touching you and kissing you. I know I have no say, and that’s not likely to change. On the other, I almost kind of wanted it to happen, because you deserve something good like that. Someone who can say what they mean, someone better than a shitty liar like me. Someone better looking too. You got mad at those kids in training for calling me old man, but honestly Petra, they’re right; I look like an old man. I feel like one too._

_-When you came over to my house on my fifteenth birthday, you bent over in front of me and I could see down your shirt. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still think about it. (I said I’d be honest!!)_

_-In that way, I’ve thought about you a lot more than I should. Which is another kind of betrayal, and trust me it’s not all that great when I do, because aside from the fact that it’s just these vague figments rocketing around my skull and skin, you’re not even in on it. You don’t even know, and that bothers me. God, it bothers me. It’s like taking advantage and you don’t even know, and I hate that. I really fucking hate it. So, I’m sorry._

_-Every time you said something lovely and sincere to me, and I made some shithead crack in return, it was to hide. I don’t think you’ve realized that, because you’d get so upset. One time you even cried – probably from frustration, but god I felt like shit after. I think that’s when it really sunk in that you weren’t ambivalent to me, that the stupid shit I said and did affected you. (It’s the reason I’m writing this fucking note). Anyway I’m sorry for that too, Petra. The truth is, every time you’d say something lovely and sincere to me, I’d love you so much and so bad that it felt like I had this fist in my chest – squeezing my heart to a pulp._

_I’ll think of more later. I got a lot to confess to you, before all is good between us. Before I can move forward._

_~_

_I was thinking more about how it started, and there’s one thing I have to tell you first. We were racing like we did before we left to train, and your hair had come loose from your braid was streaming down your back. And you turned your head and it just spread out, like a bird’s wing, or a fan or something. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life._

_This kind of shit happens to me all the time; you’ll do something that’s just so beautiful and I forget how to breathe for a minute. This was how I figured out that what I felt for you wasn’t a normal friend to friend kind of feeling. It’s supposed to be pretty calm and steady between friends – not that I’d have really known, because I didn’t have friends before you._

_I’m trying to pull it apart and figure out the difference. It’s not awe, because you can be in awe of your friends. Maybe it’s a little desperate, whatever it is. A little stupid._

_~_

_You asked me today why I’m spending so much of our off duty time in my room. ‘Cause usually we’re doing stuff together. I just thought that was funny. I’d rather be spending time with you than writing this stupid manifesto over what a piece of shit I am. But you deserve to know, so you can figure out if you still think I’m worth your time after. Probably not._

_~_

_It’s almost like you knew. Like you got a sense for me._

_So I put down the fucking letter writing for one night, ‘cause you banged the shit out of my door, and you were really insistent about it. We’re going to watch the sunset, you said. You’re worried ‘bout me, ‘cause I’ve been cooped up in here for days trying to get this shit right. Not that you know what I’ve been doing, just that I’ve been doing something, and I’m all stressed out and snappy._

_And you just wanted to help. The fact that you still think about helping me, even though I’ve done nothing to really deserve it, is one of the reasons I can’t stop loving you. One of the reasons that even when it gets so miserable and so bad that I’m just grabbing at my hair trying to get a grip on the world under my feet, I still don’t want to stop. I can’t imagine it._

_Anyway, you dragged me out and sat me down, and I made a grumpy asshole show about not wanting to, but you were adamant. I was going to have a nice night and we were going to talk. Because you’re worried about me. ME! I don’t like causing you worry, Petra, but the fact you care at all is so wonderful and impossible. There are these little hints, sometimes, that you care about me like I care about you, and I end up thinking about it so much I get sick with the possibility of it._

_You probably remember what we talked about so I’m not going to transcribe it. It takes me a fucking age to write anything. But the sun set and – god, I can’t breathe right just remembering it. We were on our backs and you kind of bunched up next to me, put your arm around my waist and your head on my shoulder._

_“I know how you are about touching,” you said, really quiet, like you were apologizing. “But I just –“_

_And I told you it was fine, of course it’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be fine? You could probably hear my heart trying to punch its way out of my fucking chest, so maybe you knew just how fine it was. I don’t have the right words for it. You think I’m a certain way about touching because whenever you touch me I get really close to just spilling my guts for you, cracking everything open and telling you everything that I ever thought, every true thing. And there’s just the way something so big in the way you touching me feels. Like I don’t have space enough in me for it, but I do at the same time, and I just –_

_Anyway._

_I looked down at you and I could kind of see your face – all pinched up, like you were worried or sad about something. And you held me tighter, and I noticed you were shaking, so I held you tighter, even though I thought it would kill me. I’m not sure it didn’t, Petra. I don’t feel right anymore. I feel like I need to have that every day. Every word I write in this stupid thing, and every time you look at me like that and touch me I get hungrier for it, because it starts seeming less impossible. I get caught up thinking maybe you ache for me like I ache for you. Wouldn’t that be something._

_I asked you what was wrong, and you shook your head. Nothing, you said – nothing’s wrong. I’m happy right now. And I wanted to kiss you. You ever get that feeling, where every speck in your body starts pulling you along to do something. You’re not even in control, you’re just a passenger and it’s taking you for a ride. I felt myself being yanked along by this insane urge to just kiss you – finally, after all these years. Kiss you. Kiss your lips and chin and nose and that little crease between your eyes, the one you get from frowning. I started shaking then, because you held me tighter and buried your face against my chest, and that was the end of that._

_After awhile you fell asleep. And I stroked your hair a little, tucked it behind your ear. Sorry about that, if that’s weird. I wasn’t going to move because if you were tired and I was comfortable to lay on I’d let you keep doing that, as long as you wanted. And it’s not like I wasn’t getting anything out of it either; it’s the first time we’d been this close in so long, and everything in me was singing. I’m still buzzing from it, Petra. I’m sitting here in the dark, scribbling away like a madman, remembering the way your hands felt and the way your hair smelled, and the way the sky went red then purple, then dark. I think dawn bell’s a few hours out. Might as well stay up through it._

_I don’t know how long you slept. Was it a few hours, a few minutes? Time went funny; lurching really fast. I didn’t want you to wake up – I mean I did, of course! Not like I wanted you to be dead (I can’t even  -- ) I just meant that I wanted this to keep going, for you to keep leaning on me like this. I thought about how lovely it was that you trusted me enough to let your guard down, and how I don’t really deserve that kind of trust._

_And I don’t think you remember this, because you acted like nothing had happened when you woke up, and you’re not a liar like me – but your hand kind of slid to my hip, and you said my name. Moaned it, almost? You must have been dreaming. And there wasn’t not enough space in my head for all the thoughts running through it then; that it’s adorable you talk in your sleep, that your hand’s getting kind of close to dangerous territory but if I move I’ll wake you up, that somehow you’re dreaming about me._

_“Auruo,” you kept saying, and Petra – I never liked my name as much as I do when you say it. Over and over, like some kind of shitty prayer. Or like you were reminding yourself. You slept and you said my name and I almost did it – I almost fucking told you. I would have done when you woke up, the fucking minute you did, if I weren’t a fucking coward._

_I should have._

_~_

_When you woke up, you were kind of embarrassed, which was so weird for me because I almost never see you get embarrassed anymore. You used to, when we were kids. Me, I was more than embarrassed – I was probably close to passing out. I can’t ever play off that cool shit when embarrassed because I blush like a stupid boy, all the way to my ears, and it looks ridiculous._

_I walked back with you and we talked a little, but I wasn’t all there. I felt like I was watching it from above, kinda. I’m thinking to myself that I should tell you now, no now, or I should ask you to come back to my room so I could give you this shit. What I had so far of it, anyway. But we got to your room and I said good night. And you looked like you wanted to say something, but after this long pause you kind of shook your head a little and said good night, in this really quiet voice. You looked up at me, and god, Petra – it’s like getting hit in the head sometimes. Everything goes foggy and weird, and I get dizzy and I can’t –_

_I can’t sleep now. I’m still twisted in knots over it._

_~_

_I don’t want to give you the idea that this is some great burden, because in a lot of ways it’s made me a more tolerable person. If I was just some stupid, lousy idiot without a shred of anything good in him, I’d be worth even less than I am now. But I think in a weird way, sometimes, that this redeems me. Even though it’s awful that I’ve kept it to myself so long._

_~_

_Sometimes I have this dream where you’ll come into my room. Not even to fuck, though I guess sometimes that does happen. (I said I’d be honest). But in this dream we don’t fuck, we just sleep. You’re in my arms and your hand is on my stomach, you tuck your head against my shoulder, so that I can lean down a little and kiss your hair. And every time I have this fucking dream, it always ends the same; you breathe out this long sigh, like everything tight in your body is going loose, and we sink down together._

_I wake up, and I’m always a little confused ‘cause it’s so real, these fucking dreams. My arms ache, my chest hurts. Like there’s a stone in the back of my throat, and no matter how much I move or do or say, or how loud I get, I can’t move it._

_But the hurt is worth it. They’re such good dreams. How fantastic would it be if they weren’t dreams, if I could look forward to this every night? If I could feel you under my hands, your mouth on mine, and know it was real._

~

_I didn’t write goodbye letters for this expedition. Partly because I know how much you hate it, partly because we’re always out training with the shitty brat and I didn’t have time, but it’s more than that now. I’m tired of keeping this quiet and tired of pretending I’m one way when I’m really another. I spent all this this time being a certain way because I was sure it wasn’t good enough – not to survive, and definitely not for you. I wanted to be better._

_But it’s one thing to act better, and another to BE better. Acting better is saying I’m great at shit and talking about my kill count, as if it’s the only thing to me that’s worth anything. (I still think that’s true, sometimes.) But being better would be to confess this to you, because you deserve the truth. You deserve to know, Petra. So you can decide for yourself what you’ll do with it. If you want things to keep on as they are, I would love that. If you never want to speak to me again, I wouldn’t love that but I’d understand. If you – by some fucking miracle – felt the same, I don’t even think I could put into words how much I’d love that._

_So when we come back, I’m going to give this to you. I’m going to tell you everything. And I’ll see you on the other side of it._


	16. petruo

When Auruo swept into her room that afternoon, she knew something was wrong.

Maybe ‘wrong’ wasn’t the right word. But from the way he paced tight laps in front of her desk, staring determined holes at his feet and twisting his hands into contorted, anxious shapes, it didn’t require her many years of knowing that man to understand something was on his mind.

 

“Stop pacing,” she said, trying not to smile. “And spit it out.”

“I’m not,” he muttered, though he did as she asked. “For fuck’s sake, I came in here – you make everything so difficult, nag.”

“So you like to say.”

He huffed, exasperated. “I just – I wanted to – goddammit, can you stop grinning at me like that?!”

“I can’t even smile at you now?” she asked him, and unconsciously her smile widened. He was so achingly, ridiculously adorable when flustered.

“No! You – you grin up and me and I can’t even – I can’t even talk, I just –“ He made a frustrated sound, pushing his messy hair back. “Look, I just thought you could use a break. Or whatever. We’ve got some furlough today, and I thought you’d like to … go out.”

“Go out?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” he said, irritated. “Are you deaf?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Ah ha. Cute,” he said, and his lips twitched briefly into a grin. “If you don’t want to, just say so. I just – I just thought you might like to get out of here for a day. No uniforms. Just … you know. Normal.”

As she looked at him, she realized that this meant more to him that he wanted it to, hence the nervousness. He seemed tired, she thought as she studied him – his eyes heavy, the lines at the corners of his mouth especially pronounced by his frown. And that his first thought was for her and what she might like to do on their brief furlough filled her with tenderness she couldn’t exactly describe.

“I’d love to,” she said, smiling again. “Give me a minute, all right?”

“Sure. I mean, yeah. Whatever.” Determinedly rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll, uh … meet you outside.”

And as quickly as he’d come, he was gone.

His behavior reminded her of the Auruo she’d known – the awkward boy she’d met her first day in Karanese who couldn’t look at her for two seconds without blushing his head off. She knew that when this side of him resurfaced, it was because he found something difficult, uncomfortable. Something was on his mind, and she wondered what it could be.

Regardless, the chance to get out of her uniform for a few hours and enjoy an afternoon as a civilian was an intoxicating prospect. Especially since she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Auruo wearing normal clothes, and it’d be dishonest to insist the prospect didn’t interest her.

She dressed slowly and took great pleasure in it. Without a thousand straps and belts to contend with, she could afford the leisure of slipping a simple dress over her head and pulling the laces taut, setting the soft fabric over her stomach and twisting a little so that the hem of the dress brushed against her otherwise bare legs.

She’d worn dresses every day of her life before joining the military; at the time they’d irked her, but she found that she’d grown to miss them.

She passed Erd on her way out to the courtyard. He leaned on his broom and shot her an appreciative look. “Got some furlough today?”

She nodded. “Auruo too.”

“Yeah, I saw him earlier. Looked pretty nervous.”

“I’d noticed.”

“You know, I asked him if he felt naked without that stupid cravat, and he didn’t say a word. Didn’t insult my intelligence or prowess. Or any of those other lovely things Auruo likes to say.”

Petra blinked. “Nothing at all?”

“Not a peep. Something’s up with him.” Erd’s grin became devious. “Watch your step, Ral.”

“Erd,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What would he even do?”

“Don’t ask me! Who knows what goes on in that walnut brain of his.”

“Erd …”

“All right, all right. I’ll be good.”

“You’ll try, anyway.”

He laughed like he did most things; openly, without reserve. “Hey, by the way. You look nice.”

Petra self-consciously smoothed the fabric of her dress over her stomach. She’d never really seen herself as attractive; probably due to the fact that she’d grown up as a skinny, knobby-kneed creature with features too large for her face. “Ah … it’s not anything special. Just something I had lying around.”

“Take the compliment or I’ll be sad.”

“Erd …”

“Fine, fine. Gunther!” he called, cupping one hand around his mouth. “Come here for a second?”

“Erd, come on…”

Gunther joined them in the hallway and pulled the kerchief away from his mouth, swiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Mm?”

“Doesn’t Petra look nice?”

Predictably, Gunther blushed to the roots of his hair as he studied her, his gaze flickering to his boots. “Y-yeah.”

“Tell her she looks pretty.”

“Erd, this isn’t necessary—“

“You look pretty,” Gunther cut in, and she hadn’t thought it was possible but his blush deepened.

She sighed deeply. “All right! All right. Thank you both. You’re very sweet to say so.”

“I just call it like I see it,” Erd said with a satisfied grin. “And you know Gunther can’t tell a lie.”

Gunther shook his head for emphasis.

Erd nodded with satisfaction. “But you better go make sure Auruo hasn’t eaten a puppy or kicked a small child.”

“He would never.”

“I’m not so sure, Ral. Grumpy bastards like him, never know what they got going through their heads.”

“Actually, it’s pretty easy to know what he’s thinking.” Petra smirked. “We can’t all have my faculties, it seems.”

He swatted her with his broom. “Get out of here, you little punk.” But he couldn’t keep from smiling. “Have a good time.”

She smiled too and waved over her shoulder, descending the stone steps into the courtyard. Though she had no idea what Auruo had planned, she had a good feeling about today. It was beautiful outside; the sun was shining, fat clouds crept slowly across the sky, and a warm breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. She thought of many similar days she’d spent with Auruo when they’d been kids. Their river was on the wrong side of Rose now, but she wouldn’t think about that today.

She caught sight Auruo before he saw her, and she bit her lip, slowing to a stop in the courtyard. He’d donned a simple white shirt and dark trousers, and he’d left the grey vest over it unbuttoned. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, and he crossed his arms over her chest, leaning against the stables and gazing into the distance. He’d obviously tried to arrange his messy hair into a more pleasant configuration, to mixed success. But she smiled as she looked at him – this man she loved, just as handsome out of a uniform as he was in it.

When he met her eyes, a hint of color rose on his cheeks. He swallowed, uncrossing his arms and pushing away from the stables. Cleared his throat. “You – you look nice,” he managed.

Oddly, she felt shy. She didn’t understand it; they’d known each other for years, seen each other in various states of undress more times than she could count, yet all he had to do was tell her that she looked nice and suddenly her heart no longer knew how to beat right. “Thank you,” she managed. “Um … you too.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Nah.”

She decided she wouldn’t address this – when faced with a compliment, he’d either insist on twice what she’d said, or dismiss it outright. Of course, she knew that when he bragged and boasted he was putting up a front, and the real Auruo was could be incredibly self-conscious. She didn’t know what to make of the fact that he was in the self-conscious mood. “What would you like to do?” she asked, looking up at him.

He avoided her gaze. “I don’t care.”

“Why ask me to come out if you didn’t want to?” she said with a frown.

“I did! I – I mean, I do. I just don’t care what we end up doing.”

“You’re acting weird.”

He gave her a nervous shrug. “’m actin’ like I always do.”

“You’re not. Even Erd noticed.” She peered closer – at the anxious set of his mouth, his worried eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s goin’ on, Petra!” He scuffed at the ground, just like he used to do as a boy, scowling. “I don’t care because I thought we’d do whatever you’d like.”

She stared at him. “Whatever … I’d like?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Geez.”

But she wouldn’t allow this self-effacing nonsense from him, not on this beautiful day. She set her hands on her hips and fixed him with her most impressive glare. “Auruo Bossard. If I said that unless you choose something for us to do I won’t go anywhere with you, what would you choose?”

He was incredulous. “ _Is_  that what you’re sayin’?”

“Yes. Choose something or I’m going out alone.”

“Why are you punishing me for tryin’ to be considerate?!”

“You’re not being considerate, you’re being lazy.”

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?!”

She crossed her arms, tapping her fingers against the sleeve of her dress. “Well?”

He said nothing for a long moment. His hazel eyes were not narrowed in irritation, nor were brows quirked sarcastically; instead, he looked as serious and earnest as she’d always known him to be. This was the side of himself that he so rarely showed the world, and another odd thrill of instinct coursed through her. “Give me a minute, then,” he said finally, and he strode off in the direction of the kitchens.

Ten minutes later, he returned with a satchel slung across his shoulders. When met with her inquiring look, his lips pulled into the first grin she’d seen from him all day. “How about you be patient, nag? You’ll see soon enough.”

“I mean, I know it’s food.”

“Sure, but you don’t know what kind of food. And you don’t know what I’m planning to do with it, and where.”

“I imagine we’ll be eating it,” she said dryly.

He sighed. “You wanted me to plan this whole thing. Let me just … can you just come with me and shelve the witty commentary for a day?”

She smirked at him. “You think I’m witty.”

“I think you’re a pain, you fuckin’ brat.” But he grinned too. “Come with me.”

They rode his horse a good distance away from base, she with her arms wrapped around his waist, holding him tightly. And she couldn’t help it, for they so rarely had the opportunity to be this close, or to touch in daylight; when his horse slowed to an easy trot, she lay her head on Auruo’s shoulder, savoring the sound of his thrilling heartbeat beneath her ear. She felt him tense, muscles shifting under her fingers, and thought how beautiful he was in this moment; vital and strong, his pulse racing, how beautifully alive.

Auruo brought them to a grove by a small, clear pond, which was cast in shadow by a tree, wide-leafed and strong. Again, she remembered their tree by the river, the one they’d spent every Sunday racing to, climbing its strong branches so they could watch the world. They had peered out above the treetop, perched there like birds, and it had been as if they could leap and take flight merely by believing it possible.

“This is what you had in mind?” she asked him as he slid down from his horse.

He shrugged. “Just thought it’d be nice to get away.”

“You didn’t want to do anything in Karanese?”

“What’s there to do that we haven’t done at least a thousand times already?” He frowned up at her. “We can go to the city if you want to so bad.”

“No, this is fine,” she said, gazing out at the pond again. “It’s beautiful.”

He had nothing to say to this; instead, he held out his hands, and she realized he meant to help her down from the horse. She held his shoulders and he gripped her by the waist, lifting her down from the horse’s back, and his hands gentle but firm. She remembered this too; how he often held her this way, as if he battled two incredible impulses – the one that begged he hold her closer, and the one that feared she’d recoil. Inexplicably, an impulse of her own surfaced– when he set her down on the grass she pulled him close, wound her arms around his neck, and kissed him hard.

Usually he would respond instantly – enthusiastically, with a grin as he explored her mouth. But today he was unsure, then as if something had broken in him, he reciprocated with desperation she had only rarely seen – the kind that rode on the heels of an expedition, the kind that they would share the first moment they had alone. He wrapped his arm tightly around her waist and pressed her close, hand splayed flat on the curve of her hip. He kissed her like she was leaving, like he’d never see her again. And she was breathing hard, and her heart was racing, and she didn’t understand the reason for his passion but she rode with it; he bore her along, until he was all she could see.

Regretfully, she broke away, studying him. His face was flushed, and his eyes were clenched tightly shut. She realized she could feel him trembling. “Auruo?” she asked, touching his cheek. “Are you all right?”

He grinned, but it looked wrong. “Sure, babe,” he said. “You knock me on my ass, you know that.”

“You seem upset …”

“Nah,” he said. “Just got carried away, I guess.”

That was one word for it, she supposed. But she watched him carefully as he spread a blanket over the shadowed grass and unpacked his knapsack, watched his shaking hands, the anxious set to his mouth. His hazel eyes, hooded by worry. For a man that spent so much time putting on an affectation, it was far too easy to see when something was bothering him.

Or maybe this was something Petra alone knew how to do. Regardless, she resolved to watch him and wait for a moment when he’d let down his guard long enough to tell her what was clearly troubling him so much.

“I know it’s not very fancy,” he said by way of apology, indicating the spread.

“It’s fine, Auruo,” she said, arching a brow. “Since when you do care about fancy?”

“Sometimes I want things to be nice,” he muttered, picking at a loose thread in the blanket. “It’s not worth the stink you’re makin’ of it.”

“Oh, it’s not, huh?” she teased, settling next to him on the blanket and poking him in the side. He shifted away, trying not to smirk.

“Hey —! Just … keep those bony fingers to yourself,” he said. “Fuckin’ hell, nag.”

An idea came to her in that moment, and she knew how she’d shake him out of his odd melancholy. She inched closer to him on the blanket, her sly grin widening. “You sure? You sure you want that?”

“Th-that’s what I said,” he managed.

“You positive?” She trailed her index finger over the bare skin of his forearm, let her touch wander before moving to trace slow, maddening circles on his thigh. Inched higher. She watched him swallow. “Still sure?”

“You’re an evil woman.”

“I’m not hearing any complaints.”

Before he could retort she pushed him back and straddled him, settling herself above his hips, wiggling a little to tease. His hands hovered above her thighs for just a moment before he slipped them under her dress, sliding over her bare skin. His hands, she thought as she bent low to kiss him deeply — his strong hands gripping tight, thumbs pressing circles, cupping her ass. His hands needing her, the feel of him responding between her legs as she grazed his lower lip with her teeth.  

“F-fuck,” he moaned. “Petra …”

And like moment before, his desperation returned. Where he was often content to let her take control, turning circles above him until he cried her name, today he captured her hands and pinned her in one smooth, powerful motion, sliding those hands in her hair and kissing her neck, shuddering when she gasped against his mouth. She wrapped her legs around his waist and arched her back into him, and god – how desperately he needed her, how painfully she needed him.

And that would have been that, had she not opened her eyes. She could have excused his greedy hands as passion and not fear, the urgency of his kiss as want and not need. But she opened her eyes and saw him – felt him trembling again, felt him holding her so tightly that it nearly hurt, his hands wound deeply in her hair. And for a moment, he did not kiss her or touch her or desire her; he merely buried his face into the crook of her neck, shivering.

“Auruo,  _what’s wrong?”_ she asked him, truly alarmed now.

At first he couldn’t look at her and his face had gone so red that she feared he would faint. “Nothing, I –“ But something changed as he spoke. She didn’t know what it was, but the lie he’d been about to tell died, and he looked up to meet her gaze, where saw a measure of resolve coalesce. “I gotta tell you something. Ah — ask you something.” He hesitated. “Tell you something, then ask you something.”

Her heart faltered, then resumed its beating nearly twice as fast. It couldn’t be … could it? “Tell me what?” she asked, suddenly breathless.

Before she could blink, he’d rolled off her and gotten to his feet. He paced and ran a nervous hand through his hair, ruining his efforts from the morning. “I just – I … I’ve been making a joke out of somethin’ that isn’t a joke. Or I didn’t make it a joke but I pretended it was, so you wouldn’t throw it back in my face.”

 _Oh, my god._ “What isn’t a joke?”

“I – I still think you’re gonna throw it back in my face. But I … I don’t want to lie about it anymore. Not after – well, not anymore.”

She couldn’t speak – a swell of sound rose in her ears, yet at the same time she felt as the world had gone utterly silent, and all that remained was the heartbreakingly earnest man pacing in front of her. And she loved him.

“I just … I made marryin’ you into a joke. I said some stupid shit about requirements and you bindin’ my hands, or you already bein’ my naggy wife, like I didn’t care, like it was – like it was a joke, and it’s not.” He took a breath, steadying himself. “It’s not a joke. It was never a joke to me.

“And I just wanted you to know that before I asked – fuck.” He looked so lost in that moment, bereft already. Brows that were usually arched sarcastically furrowed over his anxious eyes. His hands clenched into fists once before relaxing, and he stood there with his shoulders hiked, as if he expected her to say no, to violently hurl the world in his face.

As if she could have said no.

He dropped to his knees at her side, one hand reaching out to her before he seemed to reconsider. But still, he spoke: “I just wanted you to know that before I asked you to marry me.”

“Is … that what you’re doing?” she whispered.

“Yeah, goddammit!” This time he fumbled in the pocket of his vest before producing a small, gold ring – simple, with no stones or embellishment save for a nearly invisible inscription on the inside of the band. “I’m – yeah, that’s what I’m doing. I – goddammit, I had it all planned out what I was gonna say, but you just – you just looked up at me and fuckin’ forgot it all, so I’m sorry if none of this made sense or was what you wanted. I’m just –“ He ducked his head, humiliated.

“Auruo,” she whispered. “Is this why you’ve been so upset today?”

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“ _Why?!”_

“I thought you’d say no!” he spluttered, indignant. “Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

_“NO!”_

He looked like she’d slapped him. “So … that’s —?”

_“Yes!”_

Slowly, a smile spread across his features. “Fuckin’ hell, nag – let me twist in the wind, why don’t you?”

But she’d thrown herself at him, tackling him to the ground again. And she was kissing him and he was kissing her, and they laughed and made an obscene spectacle of the moment, which only the two of them were privy to. And she thought, as she framed his beloved face between her hands and brought her lips to his smiling mouth, that at that moment, anything was possible.


	17. auruo + annie (gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt fill I wrote for my darling Bri, set in a post-apoc verse with her muse, Annie.

_ **It’s** _ been about two months, he thinks when he wakes that morning, since he killed her would-be killers, and the pair of them joined their wandering. In the world before two months was a blink of an eye, an easy passing of time, but in this dustbowl two months might as well be two years. It’s a victory, of a kind. It’s a lot better than most people get.

**"How ‘bout it, brat,"**  he says that morning to the lump of blankets that is her sleeping form. He swats at his worn deerstalker cap, and a cloud of dust billows in the slatted light, fractals of sunrise.   **"They used to celebrate this shit, before it all fell apart. Anniversaries, you know? Did they do that shit where you came from?"**

No answer. In fact, she’s been awfully quiet all night — usually he hears her snuffling and snoring, and sometimes even mumbling in her sleep, tormented by some former trial. But tonight, nothing. Cold  fear twists his gut ( _another woman dead in the dust, and a child at her side — he still remembers, even now)_ and he crawls over to her, anxious hands clasping her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. Heart pounds, bile burns at the back of his throat — and for a moment he thinks he’s got another dead girl on his heads, another body he should never have had to bury —

But she’s alive. Her breaths are shallow, and when he takes her pulse it’s weak against his probing fingers, but it’s there — steady as it can be, in these circumstances. He didn’t think she could get paler, but her skin’s white as sun-bleached bone. When he presses the back of his hand to her brow, it nearly burns him.

**"What the fuck, brat,"**  he mutters, shivering in his lurching panic.   **"Why don’t you ever say anythin’?"**  She swallows her hurts and subverts her suffering, and he still can’t read her fucking mind. He’d never been good at this shit, not even before the world ended. Not even before. 

He makes quick work of camp: busts his bedroll, stuffs various odds and ends into his pack. It’s quickly apparent to him that their camp is not an appropriate place to recuperate; they’re too exposed by the elements, by the dustbowl draft that’ll leech a man in half the time it takes to cross. He’s seen it happen, and he’s not going to risk it now.

**"C’mon, brat,** " he says, tipping a flask of water to her lips.  **"We can go ‘til you get some of this shit down."** She can’t hear him, of course; Petra used to say he’d just keep on talking, even if he was the last man alive.  _Not my fault I got the voice of an angel,_ he’d teased . Of course, now the joke has taken a sour turn, and her words have achieved the weight of prophecy. He’s only satisfied when she manages a few delirious gulps, and with no further fanfare, he gathers her up into his arms, blankets and all.  

It’s a long, fraught day; by the time sunset teases the west horizon his dust-streaked hair is smeared haphazardly to his brow, shirt stuck to his straining back, and his arms scream with ache. But he finally finds a derelict shack some distance from an urban center that’ll do well enough. Sets her at the entrance and draws his gun — he’s out of his mind in worry, but never crazy enough to forsake the sweep — never stupid enough to be desperate. Assured of its safety, he brings her inside and makes camp just as quickly, his hands moving of their own accord — too many times, he’s done this. His whole life.

Dusk falls, and the cicadas sing; he watches the sun set through broken shards of glass hanging in the windowpane. This was somebody’s home once; a family lived here, much like his. A wife, children. Likely they’re shadows and dust, bones long buried. He glances down at the sick girl at his side, moaning in her fevered sleep.

** “ ** **Easy, brat,”**  he says, soothing — and there’s a weak flash of surprise that he still knows how to do this; the right words to say, and the right voice to use. He cups the back of her neck and eases her in a half upright position against him, pushes damp hair off her sweaty brow.

**"I got some broth here, and you gotta drink it. Alright? No complain’ about it, now. You know how things are.** " No response; she shudders in his arms and goes still. **“Yeah, I don’t like it either,** " he says as he tips the cup to her lips, gently so that she won’t choke.  **"I’ll tell ya, before everythin’ went to shit they had this … Christ. You could go to any old store and get yourself a slab of ground meat, and make whatever you wanted with it. Amazin’ right? When’s the last time you had meat? Or milk, for that matter? They have that in your village?" H** e thinks on it for a moment.  **"Yeah, maybe you did. It’s easier to get that shit if you aren’t movin’ around all the time.**

Half laughter, caught on a weary exhale. **“What’s the use in rootless wandererin’, eh? If you can’t get a fuckin’ cheeseburger when you want. Not that I’d give you one right now, bein’ sick as you are. Shit, you know — you could get real medicine too. Before everythin’ ending,  you could go to that fuckin’ store and get medicine.”**

He talks most of the night, until his voice goes hoarse; he thinks maybe she’ll hear him blathering and sit up, tell him to shut the fuck up. He’d like that. And when he runs out of things to say, he starts to sing. There’s an old memory he keeps buried, but it comes to him now, with another man’s child in his arms — sitting at his girl’s bedside, singing her favorite songs. Her bright smile when the fever passed and she woke up. She had her mother’s hair …

He’s lost them in every way a person can be lost; he buried them, and every minute since he bites the inside of his cheek and swallows his blood over them, thinking that maybe pain is better than remembering, or maybe it’s the same. His wife and daughter, the open wound in his gut. 

And he’d made a life for himself alone, and he hadn’t been happy but he’d been alive, and sometimes that was all you could ask for. But he isn’t alone anymore — he’s got another weary survivor to look after, and this one bears the shape of a girl; a tender foot with killer’s eyes. Hardly old enough to know what loss is. They’ve had each other’s backs, and he’s grown to care about the weary little brat, if he’s being honest. He’s grown to need her. He looks down at her fever blanched features, her thin frame shuddering in his arms, and somewhere in his chest a fire catches, spreads.

He’ll be damned if he loses her too. 

He clears his throat, swallows the lump. 

_"Annie, Annie_  
You filled my life with a song   
We’re two of a kind   
The happiest pair now   
Like Fred and Adelle, they’re floating   
On air now   
And what’s the title of the dream   
That’s too come true   
I don’t need anything   
Anything   
Anything   
I don’t need anything   
But you”  

And before he can reconsider this foolish fancy, this fairy tale that has no place in a dustbowl, he smooths dirty hair behind her ears and presses his lips to her fever-drenched brow. Like he might have done in another life.

~

He’s calculating his failure (another grave, and the piece of himself he’ll leave behind when he fills it) when she opens her eyes. It takes him a moment to realize that the sun is high, shining down through that broken window, casting patterns on her pale face. She blinks, shivers. **“Wha—?”**

**"Goddammit, brat,"**  he tells her, a big stupid grin on his face. He’s going to sleep for a year after this.  **"Goddamn …"**

And this is their accord. 


	18. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> petruo + things you said under the stars and in the grass

They lie sprawled in the tall grass, watching the deepening sky. The air grows cold, and cicadas sing for dusk; the sun colors only the very edge of the horizon, but neither of them make any move to leave. It’s too comfortable here. Petra thinks she could probably fall asleep out here under the stars, like some wild-eyed feral girl, dressed only in reeds and mud, a filthy tangle of hair streaking down her back.

“We should go home,” she says, thrilled with their daring. “We’re going to be in so much trouble.”

Auruo’s shrug rustles the grass under his shoulder. “Go ahead and leave if you’re that scared, then.”

She kicks at his legs. “Shut up.”

“Wouldn’t wanna piss off your father.”

Her father, the stick in the mud. When she finally goes home he’ll probably lecture her all night about the proper way a fourteen-year old girl ought to behave – these strictures of conduct probably won’t include footraces and expeditions into the darker, more dangerous corners of Karanese district, and they definitely won’t include her smirking, abrasive best friend and partner in crime. Her father labors under the assumption that her troublemaking is his idea; he doesn’t know that she’s usually the one responsible for their mad escapades, and Auruo’s the one following in her wake.

But the stars! The stars, whirling above their heads, streaking across the deep ebony sky. So vast, more so than anything she could possibly imagine. She stares up at that incredible sky and feels her mind spread to its limit accommodating a space without corners, without end. Anything is possible up there. For all they know, there exists a place in those stars without walls, without TItans, where its inhabitants are free to roam.

“It’s worth it,” she says finally. “I wouldn’t get to see the stars like this if I went home on time.”

“Dunno if your dad’s gonna buy that.”

“It’s not a line, Auruo. I’m being honest.”

He turns his head to look at her sidelong; she sees his eyes shine in the darkness, a cheeky grin curving his mouth. “’Course you are.”

“I’m serious!”

“I know! Geez, that’s the point. Anyone else, it’d be a line to wiggle out of trouble.”

“Would it be a line with you?”

He turns away, gazing up at the sky again. “Sure.”

But she hears the false note in his tone, the subtle tightening of his mouth. This is his old affliction; his inability to admit fascination, fearing that it makes him weak. She wants to grip his shoulders and give him a little shake, but before she can he’s pointing up at the sky, tracing a shape.

“Did you know all the stars used to have names?”

She blinks at him. “What?”

“Yeah. Some guy at the mill told me. I guess his father read it in a book or somethin’. They all had names, and there were all different types – like some that burn hotter, some that are bigger. It wasn’t just the constellation names, every single damn star had its own name, and its own place. Billions of ‘em, with their own names.”

“How’d they name them all?”

“That’s what I asked him. It’d be like naming every single piece of sand, don’t you think? He said that there were people whose job it was to name every single damn star. They had these machine telescopes that go see so deep in space that they could see where it all began. Wild, right?”

“Where it began?”

“Yeah. Like an explosion, he said. There was nothing, then everything just ‘burst into being’. ‘Cause there’s something about how space and time are linked, I think. Something about light only being able to go so fast.”

“What’s a guy like that doing shoveling coal?” she teases unthinkingly.

“What else is he gonna do? We’re not even s’posed to know this shit.”

They’re quiet for a long moment. She watches him trace shapes in the stars with an idle finger, as if perhaps by molding those remote bodies of light he can learn their names, since lost to time. “I’m glad he told you,” she says quietly. “It’s kind of lovely. Can you imagine your job being to look up at the sky and name everything you see?”

She can tell he’s imagining it because his mouth quirks ruefully, with the barest hint of longing. “Pretty cushy, huh.”

“I think it’s romantic.”

“You think everything is romantic.”

“Not everything.” She kicks at his feet again, and he snickers when her shoe twists off. But she doesn’t move to slip it back on; instead she watches the path of his finger as he learns the sky. “What’s that one?” she asks, pointing with him.

“Which.”

“That one!”

“You’re pointing at big clump of ‘em, you’re gonna have to be more specific.”

She elbows him. “The one that looks like the handle of a ladle. The very tip of it. Don’t you see?”

“It’s not like I know its name off the top of my fuckin’ head, Petra. No one knows anymore.”

“So make one up.”

She expects him to laugh at her silly request, by now accustomed to various flights of fancy, but instead he considers the sky as seriously as she’s ever seen him consider anything. By now it’s fully night; a new moon. Only the faint light of stars illuminates their wonderings. “How ‘bout … Ladle I. And Ladle II-VI.”

“That’s so boring!”

He’s obviously a little stung by her pronouncement; she sees his frown lines deepen. “Yeah? Well, if you have such strong opinions about it, why don’t you name ‘em?”

Suddenly she can’t think of anything either. “Never mind.”

“See, you can’t! It’s harder than it looks, huh!”

“Oh, be quiet.”

But he’s scented blood; his teasing smirk is back, and she’s more than a little annoyed at how cute she thinks he is when he gets like this. “Look at that one – that’s the drunken hobo, see? That’s him puking in the gutter.”

“Auruo!”

He snickers like he’s said something witty, and they squabble wordlessly for a moment, rumpling the grass with their carrying-on. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots dolefully before taking off in a rustle of silent wings. A light gust of wind rustles the tops of the long grass, tickling her ankles.

“That one’s your house,” she says finally, tracing the shape of the Bossard family’s three-room apartment with her finger. “That’s the crow that roosts in your attic.”

“That’s a soldier,” he says, cottoning on. “See the swords?”

“There’s another, next to him.”

He’s quiet. She sees the low light of the stars reflect in his far-seeing eyes, and it gives her a strange thrill of premonition, a swooping lurch in her belly. “That’s you running,” he says finally. “During our races.”

She can’t see it, but she can’t see herself either; certainly not like he does, the tail of her braid whipping almost straight back as she sprints ahead, leaving him in the dust. That he looks on this weekly occurrence fondly makes her smile. Before he can wiggle away or reconsider what he’s said and dress it in sarcasm, she reaches across the shrinking breach and clasps his loose fingers in hers. And it’s cold tonight, but they’re warm; not forge warmed, but as if by sunlight.


	19. jeankasa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jeankasa + things you said with no space between us

It should bother him that her hands don’t shake. 

Right? People’s hands shake when something shitty happens. Jean’s had a lot of time to think about it, anyway, and that’s something he knows for certain; hands shake, voices tremble. They look unsteady and lost, shivering even in the dead of summer. The point is they’re affected. Things touch them.

But almost nothing touches Mikasa. He’s seen her cut through a horde of Titans with the same implacable expression on her face that she wears when she’s eating breakfast. If he hadn’t seen her lose her shit over Eren the first time he shifted, he might never have known she had the capacity for emotion at all. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he mutters when she brushes his cheek, whisper light. 

She blinks once before resuming her examination. “You’re bleeding.”

“Imagine that.” The sarcasm sounds especially loud in this space; shivering and close, hardly a breath between them. Why is she so fucking close? His skin burns under her fingers, and his heart galumphs weakly against his ribs before wedging itself somewhere in the roiling pit of his stomach. Abruptly he’s furious with himself for getting so stupid over the most meaningless touch; it’s not like she’s about to kiss him or anything, for fuck’s sake.  She’s just being pragmatic. She doesn’t want him to get blood all over his jacket. 

Carefully, she cleans the gash. She’s so close that he can’t avert his eyes, and he’s forced to look at her right back; to desperately drink in the odd symmetry of her features, the exact shade of her eyes. There are lighter gray flecks in that sea of dark; they narrow slightly as she works, illuminating her ironclad focus.  

“There will be a scar,” she tells him. 

“I don’t care.”

Silence. Is he imagining it, or does her gaze drift down to his lips before holding his stare? There’s a little color in her face – from effort, or emotion? He’s fooling himself. Her regard is strictly professional; they are comrades, after all. She’s just helping a comrade, that’s it. He’s shifting away from this horribly awkward, demoralizing realization when he watches her brows furrow; so slightly, crumpling with delicacy that shouldn’t be possible for a regular person. He’s filled with the sudden mad impulse to press the flat of his thumb to her brow  and gently smooth the furrow away. 

“You should be more careful,” she says finally. And he’s definitely not imagining the little catch in her voice. 


	20. levihan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> levihan + things you said after you kissed me

Levi kisses her when the lights go out.

Neither is accustomed to physical passion, so the kiss is clumsy at best – bumping teeth and noses, small graceless noises when his hands cup the scrawny line of her neck. She makes a laughing sound when his mouth strays to the corner of hers, testing. He’s impatient with himself. A lifetime of living on the solid edge of expertise has made him a bit of a perfectionist, enough to know that he’s not doing this right. 

Figures, of course. He’s good at killing, good at getting people killed. Not so good at being in love. Something kind will occur to him and he’ll stumble on it’s shape. These days he doesn’t even try to explain himself; everything is too unwieldy to articulate. He only glowers, feeling clumsy and childish, struggling with something it seems like the rest of the world figured out long ago. 

Thankfully, Hange does not seem to require him to say such impossible things. She understands him, even when his words are hard, dripping with curses, when his manner veers inevitably into abrasive regard. She can read him easily, so that when he says one thing and means another, she can see past the words, sift aside distraction, to the small kernel of truth within. She’s the only one who can do this.

He never would have guessed that it’d be Hange encouraging him to slow down, to be forgiving. Her lips lift against his until he’s kissing her smile; a soft curve, fond and tender. It’s like holding daylight in the palm of his hand, this clumsy kiss; like the weight of a bright secret on the tip of his tongue. His breath stalls hot in his chest, and shaking hands slip down to her shoulders – he is both pulling her closer and bracing himself against her, the way she feels, the truth of it solid and shimmering between them. 

“Levi …” she breathes, tickling his cheek.   


His hands wander. He grips the subtle dip at her waist, fingers tightening there, rumpling her shirt before slipping inside to skim bare skin, raised with scars.His exhale billows shakily into the silence.  _I like this_ , he thinks.  _I could do this all day._ His wonder is almost childlike – a weapon that finds another use for itself, one that is soft, one that feels good.  _I love you._ He thinks it with increasing audacity, repeating it, testing the words in his whirling thoughts, until he thinks foolishly it’ll write itself on the back of his skull, between his brows, on the flat of his tongue, so easily tasted.  _I love you I love you._

“Your glasses are smudged,” he says instead.   


Anyone else would have been hurt or annoyed, but Hange laughs – a snort turned giggle, shoulders shaking with suppressed hilarity. She removes her smudged glasses and sets them aside before giving his cravat a teasing tug. “Better?” 

He’s irritated until she kisses him again, and maybe he’s learning to understand her like she understands him, because this kiss is deeper, an entreaty and affirmation, an expression of everything she can’t tell him either.  _I know_ , she seems to say.  _I know what you meant._


	21. hilow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hilow + things we said when we were hopeful

Hitch bounces her leg, chewing absently on a ragged hangnail until blood blooms across her tongue, bracing and metallic. No one’s looking, so she doesn’t have to smile; instead they’re all talking to golden boy Marlowe, who seems to have found his pocket of belonging in the Survey Corps. She can’t really begrudge him that, not while being a good friend to him. But still something about it makes her sad. 

It isn’t just the two of them anymore. Not that it ever was, technically; even in the Military Police they were a part of a whole. She realizes that back when she’d been his only friend, it had made her feel special, made her hope there was something special growing between them. Now, it’s easy to see that he’s just as friendly with people he can relate to, people who share his crazy ideas about how the world should be. 

She’s not sulking. She  _isn’t_. Is it a crime to sit by herself and brood now? Is thinking against the law? She should ask Marlowe; he’s probably got The Law tattooed across his chest. She colors a bit when thinking about his chest – thinking about the strong planes of it, how surprisingly lean he is. 

It’s not much later when he wanders back to her corner of the campsite, but it seems like at least five years have passed; she feels old and embittered by her observations, abandoned by circumstance – a tragic heroine like in one of her favorite novels. “Fancy seeing you round these parts,” she says, reclining in what she hopes is an appealing manner.

As usual, he’s unaffected by her teasing. “Why are you sitting alone?”

“Oh, you know. Bored. Tired. Not in the mood. Pick one.” 

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” 

That’s the last thing she wants. “Nah. You may stay.” She makes her tone portentous and languid; a queen bestowing a small favor upon a lesser creature.  Going by his furrowed brows, he probably thinks she’s being serious. That would be just her luck, wouldn’t it?   


She doesn’t like it here. She doesn’t trust these Survey Corps soldiers just because they’re supposed to be on the side of goodness and justice; that means less to her than it does to Marlowe. She still remembers Stohess and the stink of rotting dead in summer, the wall of rot that rushed them as soon as they left their barracks. She knows it’s supposed to be Annie’s fault, that Annie is supposed to be the Titan that wrecked bloody havoc, but it hasn’t really sunk in yet. She’s still in the blame the messenger stage; if she has any control over matters, she’ll stay there. It’s easier. 

She’s about to tease Marlowe for how easily he was taken in by their rhetoric when she notices that he’s turned to look at her. She hates this look; she calls it the razor in the privacy of her thoughts, the ones she would die before sharing. He looks at her deeply, searchingly, like he’s trying to see the wandering path of her veins beneath her skin, all the way to her bones. He looks at her like she’s a puzzle, and he’s going to solve it if it’s the last thing he does.

This look makes her heart race. “What?!”

He’s quiet for a moment too long, just long enough to drive her slightly crazy. Answers are always slow to come from him; he’ll puzzle their ends and weigh them out before he says a word. Anyone else would probably be encouraged by his commitment to honesty, but it makes her feel nervous and exposed. 

He takes a breath, lets it out slow. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says finally.

Would that she could put this in its place with the rest. Instead, it sinks deep, burrows its way to the center of her heart, where it will remain. That’s the trouble with this reckless truth-telling, isn’t it? She knows it doesn’t mean what she wants it to mean, but she hopes anyway; even though it’s stupid, even though she’s grasping at nothing. Even though she’s spent the entire night sulking on the edge of the group, watching him pull away, aching with the inevitability of it. She hopes, perhaps foolishly, that this is his center too. 


	22. levihan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> levihan + things you said when you were scared

_It’s just a little blood,_ he thinks.

_It’s just a shoulder._

In the grand scheme of things, he knows that Hange is lucky – that they all are, considering the events of the last few, wretched days. He’s got more blood to account for, more dead of whom to ask forgiveness; this alone would make him harrowed and withdrawn, but Hange’s close shave with death shortens an already short manner. He keeps his hands fisted and tight, otherwise he fears they will tremble.

“Levi,” she says from her supine position in the cart, flapping her good hand at him. Her voice is weak. “I need my notes.” 

“You need to rest,” he says dully.

She continues on as if she hasn’t heard him. “I just realized – no, don’t interrupt me – if we could … the traps we tried, they weren’t very hardy, remember? If we could just … I’ll have Moblit sketch it, where is he –”  


“Hange –”  


“… no, no, that won’t work … Levi, just give me something to write on.” 

 “Why don’t I pull something out of my ass?” 

“Would you?”   


He stares at her, uncomprehending and annoyed, and aware that he’s lucky to be as such with her, instead of crowded by a hasty grave, reconciling her stillness with the active, infuriating woman he knew in life. _It’s just a shoulder,_ he tells himself again.  _Just a little blood. Not even the heart side._  It had struck her high, missing her lungs and bone, piercing only tough muscle. But he knows it had been a poorly aimed shot, and if it had struck where the shooter intended, they would not be having this conversation.

_Just a little blood._

He’s about to snap again when he catches a glimpse of her face from within the cart; damp with sweat, a filthy tendril of hair stuck to her brow and cheek. Her breathing is shallow, and when the sun passes behind a thick cloud, the glint in her glasses fades to reveal wide, pitted eyes. Her good hand shakes on her abdomen. 

_She’s afraid_ , he thinks wonderingly.  _She’s in pain._ Of course she is; she’s human, tender and imperfect, bright and so easily broken. Sometimes it’s easy to forget, watching her motor from one obsession to the other. She does not stop; she doesn’t sleep. He’s seen her work for a week straight, doggedly pursuing some vital understand that will change the tide of the fight, both because it needed to be done and because an unanswered question deeply unsettles her.  In those moments, hunched over her notes, her hand flying across a smudged page, it’s easy to see her as above morality – more than flesh, more than hurt. 

“I just need something to work on,” she says, head tipped toward her useless arm in its sling. But he hears the words she will not say, not in front of the others;  _I need a distraction._

He is learning her; even now, even years later. It had just been a little blood, but it could have been so much more. So much worse. Wordlessly, he rummages through his pockets until he produces a hopelessly crumpled pamphlet that had stuck to his boot the last time they were in city. When he passes it to her, their fingers brush. 

“That’s going to have to do for now,” he says gruffly.   


She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Her eyes are too unfocused to read the bold words stamped across the page; gently, she smooths the ruined pamphlet across her knee, and a slow smile blooms across her wan features.  “Not your ass, but close, huh?” 


	23. levihan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> levihan + things you said when you thought i was asleep

Before they begin, Hange removes her glasses. 

“Don’t want you to break them when you get carried away,” she explains. There’s laughter on the edge of her tone. 

“I don’t get carried away.”   


“Mhm.”   


But he does; oh, how quickly he does. As if there had been a catch in his chest, a twice cast lock, and her touch is the only thing able to break it. These swallowed things crowd him as he buries his shaking fingers tentatively in her hair and brings his lips to hers. For once, he exists outside of cruel reality that has defined every day of his life, the grinding wheel that turns the world. There is more than death here. There can be more. 

She makes a little sound when he pulls at her belts and slips them off. They stumble over their clothes, tossing them aside before tumbling entwined on her bed. It’s an awkward business; made more so by the little tremor of desperation that travels up his arms, makes his heart shiver. He thinks she can hear it because her lips curve, teasing and tender. “Levi …” 

She says his name many times that night: soft when he kisses her, trembling when he balances on his forearms above her naked body, challenging when she pins him right back, her tangled hair hanging in her face, tumbling over surprisingly narrow shoulders. He can’t say anything back. The words catch on his jagged edges, muddled in the dark. 

“Is this alright?” she asks him, breathless. Her knees press against his hips.   


He nods dumbly. He’s straining to bury himself in the heat between her legs, that inexorable pull there. His heart is crashing in his chest, thudding in his neck, his seeking fingertips. 

She hesitates for another moment, and he realizes that she is doing this because she understands his awkwardness, his lack of experience; how he comes to these places slowly, wary of pitfalls. She understands that he won’t speak tonight because he’ll only say something rough, and he doesn’t want that for her, not tonight. He nods again, and cranes up to kiss her. 

She takes him in one hand and guides him inside, and he’s watching; watching her lower lip catch between her teeth, the soundless ‘oh’ her mouth makes when she takes him hilt deep, watching the muscles in her thighs, watching her eyes grow vague as she rides him, her hands sliding up his chest. He’s watching hungrily, greedily, watching desperately, afraid that this will vanish the moment he closes his eyes. 

* * *

Hange sleeps so soundly that for one horrible heart-stop moment, Levi thinks that she’s dead. She’s curled on her side with a pile of mused papers pressed between her ink smudged cheek and the pillow, still and silent as early morning. Fear grips him, a sick pulsing, like a clenched fist. He clutches her shoulder before he notices the slight motion of it under his hand, whispered breath hitching before she exhales soft and slow, rustling the papers.   


He doesn’t know what the hell her notes are doing in bed. In the light of this morning, his memory is ostensibly selective, narrowed to those few moments of desperate kissing, and trembling hands sliding up bare flesh. The weight of her breasts against his palms. Her parted lips …    


She’s so exuberant about everything she does that it’s still kind of surprising to see her like this, which is probably why he initially assumed she was dead. She’s always moving, always talking and asking questions, interrogating the minute details of their existence until they take their places in her understanding. He expected her to be a fitful sleeper, tossing and turning, arms flung out. 

This morning, he hardly knows what to make of himself, after learning what he knows now. He half expects to find her handprints on his hips and chest, marking him as belonging. This doesn’t upset him like it might have, like it should. 

For a little while, he just looks at her; the subtle dip at her waist, her filthy hair mussed and matted in the back. Careful not to wake her, he traces from shoulder to hip, watching goosebumps raise in his fingertip’s wake. If he were another man, he might be able to say something honest and lovely, like that she’s beautiful, or last night was amazing, or that he almost wants to live here now. Instead, he can only manage honest; not true, but blunt as a worn edge.

“You’re going to freeze, shitty-glasses,” he tells her. “Winter’s coming soon.”   


“What the hell are your notes doing in bed?” he asks.

“Gross. You have ink all over your face.”   


“When’s the last time you showered, anyway?”   


On and on; a dozen little observations that might as well be the most profound declarations of love, because for once they are spoken in a voice as exposed as a heartbeat. 


	24. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> petruo + things you said after you kissed me

It’s the familiar argument.

He ties the cravat around his neck like a silken carapace and watches her lips purse as she brushes past. He leans back in his chair, sipping tea with unearned extravagance, and her brows furrow. When he mentions his kill count, in a tone as polished as brass, he could swear some elemental anger flashes deep in those extraordinary amber eyes. Many things can be said of Petra Ral, but she does not take anything lightly. 

After dinner she corners him. “Why do you do this?” she asks, flicking the cravat contemptuously. “This is nothing like you.” 

“And you’d know, huh?” 

The weight of her incredulity is nearly physical. “I would, actually!” 

Before they joined the Survey Corps, it was comforting that she knew him so well, that she could lift aside various layers of reticence caused by his inability to express himself to see who he really was, what he really meant; now, it takes the shape of a curse. No matter what form he adopts, no matter what mannerisms he acquires, she will always see who and what he is under it all. He can’t hide from her. 

Unsettled, he falls back on sarcasm. “What are you, my wife or somethin’?” 

“No,” she fires back. “I’d never marry a liar.” 

Ouch. The words make him flinch, which infuriates him more – it’s as if everything in life conspires to make his weakness obvious, especially to this woman. The truth might as well be tattooed to his forehead. “You know, this whole pushy nag routine might’ve been cute when we were kids, but it ain’t anymore, so let’s get a few things straight. I wear this,” a pause to indicate his cravat, “’cause I like it. I talk the way I do ‘cause it suits me. More importantly, none of this shit is your business.” 

She doesn’t acknowledge this little speech, probably because she’s heard it at least a half dozen times already, and it’s as convincing today as it was then (which is to say, not at all). Her brows furrow; for a moment, she looks almost disappointed with him, like this song and dance has really let her down or something. Which is, of course, ridiculous. What does she care? 

When she speaks again, her tone lacks its earlier edge; instead, she sounds as lost as he feels.  “You know you’re nothing like him, right?”

He knows this; he knows he’s nothing like Captain Levi, and he’ll never be anything like Captain Levi, because Captain Leviis Humanity’s Strongest soldier, slayer of countless Titans and star of the Survey Corps, and Auruo’s a scrawny, jumpy piece of shit from the Karanese slums who can hardly stand to look at his true face – overly earnest, too afraid. Ugly with worry. 

“If I was anything like him, I wouldn’t have to do this shit,” he bites out in an uncharacteristic lapse, cursing himself the moment the words leave his lips. They hang in the thick silence like smoke. His hands curl into fists, and his shoulders lift halfway to his ears; waiting for arched brows, the sneer, the rolled eyes that convey derision he heartily deserves.

But she does none of these things; she only looks at him, and he could spend a thousand futile years attempting to translate that look. Like she doesn’t see how foolish and small he is, like he gets on her last nerve sometimes but she’ll stick around anyway. She takes a step closer, stands on tiptoes and gently tugs him down to her level by the cravat, holding his shoulders for balance.

“Wh-?” he manages, but then she’s kissing him, and the rest of his stunned protest dies in the back of his throat. She smells like soap and horses, tastes like honey and tea – she twines her small hands around the back of his neck and presses a hot line of kisses against the corner of his mouth, and he feels her smile when he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. Her lips are so soft that he forgets they shouldn’t be doing this in the middle of the hallway, where just anyone could stumble on them, bust their reckless bullshit – he forgets that he’s a soldier and she’s a soldier and they both struggle to realize impossible ambitions, idealistic fancies that should have no place in the real world. He forgets that he’s hungry, and he’s trying.   


Finally, she draws away – they’ve been kissing so long that he’s kind of unsteady on his feet, and he has to lean against the wall for a modicum of balance. He thinks she’s about to lecture him again, but instead she skims the hard edge of his cheekbone with her thumb, and the touch sends a pleasant shiver down his back. 

“You don’t have to be like him,” she tells him softly, and for a moment he almost believes her. 


	25. auruo + levi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> auruo/levi + things you said with no space between us

You are a poor mirror.

He doesn’t see his reflection when he looks at you. The haircut’s right but the hair is wrong, the cravat’s cotton instead of silk, even your frame is lacking – tall and lanky where powerfully compact would be correct. You roll the edge of your tongue between your teeth and look down, shoulders bowing beneath the weight of your earnest anxiety; no matter how you stand beside him or what you say, you seem a gawky shadow, unnecessary and foolish. 

You aren’t completely stupid. You know he doesn’t like it; you see how his lip curls ever so slightly when he looks at you, when the full measure of your childish awe registers. It is not conduct becoming of a subordinate. Of a soldier. It’s not the behavior of a worthwhile person. 

Yet you persist. The cravat chafes your neck and his manner of speech is awkward and heavy on your tongue, an awkward enough entity without the help, yet you continue. You hardly know yourself outside of this performance anymore. How would he know you? 

It’s perverse that you can spend so much time trying to be like Levi, and in the one area where he’d find it acceptable you can barely manage a passing resemblance, let alone reflection. He stands with his arms crossed in the middle of the course, watching you fumble techniques that a trainee should know. He’s supposed to be training you. He might finally start if you can get your crap together. 

“Again,” says Levi, and your teeth clench.   


How long have you been at this shit? Months of shapeshifting, and you’re still you – still weak and scared, fumbling with your blades. Blisters burst on tender palms. You remember the ones you lost more as corpses than as they’d been alive – more than the things they would tell you, the names they slung about your shoulders. You want to disappear behind your act but it’s not big enough to cover them too. 

You don’t remember falling – one moment you’re grappling for a beam across the course and the next you’re flat on your back in the hot mud. You wiggle your legs and arms, checking for injuries, shame pooling hot in your gut. You can’t focus for shit. You look at a beam and see a Titan’s arm. You are still a grasping kid trying to make sense of the stupid choices you made when you were younger, when you foolishly thought that you could change how shitty everything was by working hard and making sacrifices. You feel sorry for that stupid kid, and for yourself; you’re both disappointments. 

Levi cranes down over you, and the sudden proximity nearly stops your heart; his face is so close that you can see flecks of grey in his eyes. “Are you alright?” 

You don’t know. Probably. You’re not wounded, anyway. Your walnut brain’s another story.

Somehow, Levi seems to understand this. He looks at you for a long time, and you’re left wondering what your river-wreck bullshit reminds him off, because he isn’t all there in that moment; he’s looking at you, but he’s looking through you too, seeing people long gone. It’s the first time you consider that Levi might have lost people and made mistakes too. And he manages; somehow, he manages. You’d never know it looking at him. You want that for yourself. Finally you nod, stunned and stupid with realization. 

He doesn’t offer his hand, and you didn’t expect him to. The offering is in his words: “Then get up.” 

You’re lanky and scrawny and awkward, a boy hiding, but you obey. “Yes, sir.” 


	26. jeanmarco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jeanmarco + things you said when you were crying

He can’t get the smell out of his clothes.

And he’s tried; no one can accuse Jean of not trying hard enough. Every free moment he washes his shirts and jackets until his fingers are red raw, his knuckles cracked from the lye. He scrubs furiously at the spotless cloth until their Squad Leader tells him to pack it up for the night. In the Military Police one might mutter about such crazy behavior, but here in the Survey Corps no one bats an eyelash.  

(He’ll try to puzzle it out on the long nights like tonight, the ones with that sun-bare street laid out in his dreams, shimmering and red: was he meant for this place before or after Marco? Was there a part of him already broken, already crazy, already waiting for an outlet?) 

He shivers in his bunk, though the July heat is merciless. It doesn’t matter. He could put a thousand years of desperately brave living between him and that corpse on the street, yet the stench of Marco rotting in the sun will still seep through his widening cracks, linger in his mouth, his eyes; a foul miasma. He’ll feel it as much as smell it. 

He can’t remember the last thing he said to Marco. He can’t remember the last thing they laughed about, the last time they gripped shaking shoulders, delighted by some private joke. Even Marco’s face slips in and out of the light; features remain, but the whole fogs and fades, like breath on glass. Smudged charcoal. He had freckles and a kind smile. He chewed his nails sometimes.

Fucking bullshit. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. They were supposed to serve the King together. They were supposed to get out of this pisshole, not further in. They can share three years of knowing each other, of whispering in the darkness, his face moon-like and open, eyes shining. Yet here, two weeks deep, Jean remembers only his freckles and the shape his broken body had made on the street, shrouded by blood that had congealed nearly black. He remembers the unforgiving stench, and it overshadows everything that had come before like a heavy cloud. Every bright memory. 

His stomach coils violently on itself. Tears track down his cheeks, and he doesn’t bother to swipe them away. He retches, but nothing comes up – nothing ever comes up. 

_You’re not strong,_ Marco had said. It had been honest kindness that day, but now it takes a different, darker form. 

“I know,” Jean whispers brokenly, shivering. “I know.” 


	27. levihan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> levihan + things you said under the stars and in the grass

He loses Hange after dinner. One moment she’s moving through the darkening halls at his side, cracking her knuckles, and the next she is gone – conspicuously, suspiciously absent, a vital function you notice only after it ceases. He should let her disappear – it’s common enough at this juncture, and he’s not in the mood for her various shenanigans– but it’s exactly that foul mood that makes him stubborn. He wasn’t ready to say goodnight yet. 

So he scours headquarters, growing increasingly more irate until he finds her in the field outside the mess hall, perched amid incomprehensible charts, fiddling with a large brass telescope. Every now and then she’ll lean too close to the lens, and her goggles click softly against the smooth glass. It’s both reassuring and annoying. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks her, though it’s obvious.  


“Levi! Come sit with me.”   


He does, grudgingly. It’s so like her not to waste words with an obvious answer. 

The fading sky stretches above them, punctuated by faint stars and a translucent moon, fixing to its shifting point above. But Hange is patient, and he is stubborn; they wait in silence until the sun slips beneath the horizon and the stars emerge, steady and vast, staggering in their scope; beneath them he remembers a single file of ants that had made their home in his, before the Survey Corps, before the end. They had scurried, black and frail, in the harsh light; each single step of his comprised thousands of theirs. He wonders how small he must seem to a solitary star. 

Hange captures her lower lip between her teeth as she fiddles with the knobs and gears, tracking light across the darkness. He should watch the sky, or watch his hands, or watch the shadow of the treeline for danger, but instead he steals childish glances at her out of the corner of his eye. A flash of her hair, a flash of her nose. Her set mouth. It’s her enthusiasm that draws him close; it warms him, even though the night is cool. When she finds what she was searching for, she smiles, and its brilliance overwhelms.

“Look,” she urges, so he does.

He has to readjust the lens before he can make anything out, accounting for his far keener eyesight, but finally after muttering and uncharitable thoughts toward this infernal contraption, he can just make out a fuzzy red sphere, and the sight is so foreign that he draws back, blinking.

“You saw it?”   


“The red earth?”   


“Yeah!” She frames the red planet between her hands, holding it in place, an almost unbearably tender gesture. He should take it as a sign of her madness – that not even distant words are safe from her anthropomorphizing– yet in the face of his discovery, it is somehow mutual and private. “Someday, people are going to live up there.”

He eyes her speculatively. “You want to work hard taking this world back just to leave it?”

“I want people to be free to leave if they want– not because they were chased away, but because they were curious. Because they got restless looking up there, seeing that distant place in the sky. Wondering what it’d feel like under their feet..” She looks at him, suddenly serious. “People go wrong when they don’t have anything to aim for.”   


He thinks about that long after they say goodnight. There are no peaceful, steady conclusions; instead he watches the sky from beyond his open window, staring hard at the place the red planet had been, feeling that restless ache settle deep in his chest. 


	28. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> petruo week day 1: anticipation

-13 days left-

 _bosshard 03:23_ – you awake?

 _::PRal 03:27_ – I am now.

 _bosshard 03:27_ – ah shit. u gotta turn notifications off when you go sleep, nag.

 _::PRal 03:27_ – And miss a message from you?

 _::PRal 03:28_ – What’s up?

 _bosshard 03:28_ – you

 _bosshard 03:28_ – ha ha

 _:PRal 03:28_ – You’re so funny.

 _bosshard 03:29_ – yeah i am.

 _bosshard 03:29_ – nah, just

 _bosshard 03:31_ – ma’s actin like me moving means i’m never gonna see any of them again.

 _bosshard 03:31_ – all this tearful melodrama – well what about holidays at least? like im goin off to war or instead of moving in with my girlfriend

 _bosshard 03:33_ – i don’t really know how to tell her like … christ. its not like she’ll never get a chance to speak to me again for the rest of our lives. or see me, even. as pessimistic as she wants to get about it.

 _::PRal 03:33_ – Well …

 _bosshard 03:34_ – what

 _bosshard 03:34_ – you planning on murdering me in a bathtub and harvesting my organs or something

 _::PRal 03:35_ – Oh yes, you’ve landed on my plan exactly. Darn.

 _bosshard 03:35_ – DARN she says, like some 50s housewife that just burned dinner

 _::PRal 03:36_ –  A 50s housewife would not be so blasé about burning dinner. Disappoint her husband/owner?! The world would end.

 _bosshard 03:37_ – yeah yeah the 50s were terrible and it was a bad example. its 3am, how bout you cut me a break.

 _bosshard 03:37_ – what were you gonna say

 _::PRal 03:38_ – I was going to say you should probably cut your _mom_ a break. It’s not like you’re moving a few hours away … you’re moving overseas. It _will_ be harder to see each other. And she has to get used to seeing you maybe once a year, when she saw you every day. It’s hard.

 _bosshard 03:39_ – yeah i know

 _bosshard 03:39_ – wouldn’t be such a big fcking deal if they could just leave france too.

 _bosshard 03:40_ – whats even here anymore? it’s a fcking dump.

 _::PRal 03:41_ – You might be a teeny bit biased.

 _bosshard 03:41_ – BIASED huh

 _bosshard 03:41_ – whys that

 _::PRal 03:42_ – Your gorgeous girlfriend lives stateside, after all.

 _bosshard 03:42_ – yeah she does …

 _::PRal 03:43_ – !!! No snotty quip at my expense?!

 _bosshard 03:43_ – too late for that. or early.

 _bosshard 03:43_ – i haven’t slept in awhile

 _bosshard 03:43_ – this timezone shit’s pretty much destroyed any regular sleep schedule i might’ve had

 _::PRal 03:44_ – So if I want you to admit how much you like me, all I have to do is get you a little sleep deprived. Good to know.

 _::PRal 03:47_ – Auruo?

 _bosshard 03:47_ – yeah, sorry nag. just thinkin

 _bosshard 03:49_ – maybe after workin in boston a few years i’ll have enough to move them all

 _::PRal 03:50_ – Maybe _we_ will.

 _bosshard 03:50_ – geez …

 _bosshard 03:50_ – what’s a good person like you doin with a piece of shit like me, anyway

 _::PRal 03:51_ – Because you’re a good person too. When you’re not being insufferable.

 _bosshard 03: 52_ – i wouldn’t know how to be anything else

 _::PRal 03:52_ – See, there you go …

 

-12 days left-

 _::PRal 15:12_ – I just might kill my boss. I might actually do it today.

 _::PRal 15:12_ – There’s something about these types of men, they think being in charge means they can treat people poorly and I can’t stand it.

 _::PRal 15:13_ – And they know that you can’t say anything because you need your job and if you’re insubordinate they can fire you and then you can’t afford your apartment or groceries and you live on the street selling sad, half-dead flowers.

 _bosshard 15:13_ – when did this become a dickens novel

 _bosshard 15:14_ – if you wait til i get there i can help with the body

 _::PRal 15:14_ – Why are you encouraging me.

 _::PRal 15:14_ – Who is going to be the voice of reason in this relationship.

 _bosshard 15:15_ – not you, that’s for damn sure.

 _::PRal 15:15_ – You know one thing I am _really_ looking forward to being able to do when you get here?

 _bosshard 15:15_ – aha whats that babe? ;)

 _bosshard 15:15_ – somethin i’d like?

 _::PRal 15:16_ – Depends. Are you a masochist?

 _::PRal 15:16_ – Because I’m really looking forward to being able to smack you when you say something ridiculous.

 _bosshard 15:17_ – well mark me down as scared and horny

 _bosshard 15:18_ – by the way if i ever meet your shitstain boss i’ll spit in his coffee before i throw it in his face

 _bosshard 15:18_ – before i punch it

 _::PRal 15:19_ – My hero.

 

-11 days left-

 _bosshard 06:40 –_ if plane tickets weren’t so fcking expensive i might just leave today

 _bosshard 06:59_ – im serious, im losing my mind

 _bosshard 08:02_ – christ ok im b

 _bosshard 10:10_ – ok IM BACK THIS TIME FOR REA

 _bosshard 13:14_ – im going to kill my brothers

 _::PRal 13:14_ – Please don’t.

 _::PRal 13:14_ – They’re so cute.

 _bosshard 13:14_ – what about me huh???

 _::PRal 13:15_ – Eh.

 _bosshard 13:15_ – you are so mean to me.

 _::PRal 13:15_ – Oh my god.

 _bosshard_ _13:16_ – seriously you

 _::PRal_ _13:17_ – Seriously I what?

 _::PRal_ _13:30_ – Auruo?

 _bosshard_ _16:50_ – sorry nag. benoit came in and he was

 _bosshard_ _16:50_ – well. pretty upset.

 _bosshard_ _16:50_ – hard to be mad at em when they get like this

 _::PRal_ _16:52_ – :( They’re going to miss you.

 _bosshard_ _16:52_ – its not like

 _bosshard 16:52_ – i mean i

 _bosshard 16:52_ – geez

 _::PRal 16:53_ – You’re going to miss them too.

 

-10 days left-

_bosshard 08:59_ – when can i talk to you babe

 _bosshard 08:59_ – i need to hear your voice.

 _::PRal 08:59_ – Auruo …

 _::PRal 09:00_ – I wish I could. I’m stuck at the house for a bit longer, and --

 _::PRal 09:00_ – Dad still doesn’t …

 _bosshard 09:01_ – are you kidding me

 _bosshard 09:01_ – you haven’t told him yet????

 _::PRal 09:03_ – I’ve … been waiting for a good time.

 _bosshard 09:03_ – you’re never gonna get that perfect time, petra

 _bosshard 09:03_ – he’s not gonna like it no matter when you tell him

 _::PRal 09:03_ – I know that.

 _bosshard 09:04_ – so what’s this really about.

 _bosshard_ 09:16 – petra?

 _::PRal 09:20_ – I … want him to approve.

 _::PRal 09:20_ – I keep thinking if

 _::PRal 09:20_ – Maybe if I tell him at a certain time or a certain way he won’t

 _::PRal 09:20_ – I mean I’m an adult, for crying out loud. I’m twenty-three. I can make my own choices

 _::PRal 09:21_ – I should be allowed to make my own choices without having to feel guilty about it

 _::PRal 09:22_ – He has no room to talk anyway, he MARRIED mom when they’d only been dating for two months.

 _::PRal 09:22_ – Just two!!!

 _::PRal 09:23_ – But I’m some careless child for wanting to move in with my boyfriend of more than twice that long.

 _::PRal 09:23_ – He gets things a certain way but a different set of rules exist for me and I just

 _::PRal 09:24_ – Auruo, it’s not because of you, okay? I swear that it’s not.

 _bosshard 09:24_ – alright, i believe you –

 _::PRal 09:25_ – Just now he’s thunking around in the kitchen, all annoyed that I’m talking to you and packing for our new apartment instead of paying attention to him, and it’s just –

::PRal 09:26 – And that’s just from knowing I’m moving out. When I tell him I’m moving in with you, it’s going to be

 _::PRal 09:27_ – You’re lucky, you know that? Your family will miss you and they’re sad and it’s going to be painful but they don’t make it your problem and they don’t make it so that you can’t even tell them what the hell is going on because you just want things to be nice, for once you just want things to be nice without having to walk eggshells around them.

 _bosshard 09:28_ – hey, hey. i’m sorry, i didn’t know

 _bosshard 09:29_ – well i kinda did but lmao fuck you don’t expect a grown ass adult to act like a fucking baby

 _bosshard 09:30_ – look, is he paying for this shit? is he going to cut you out of his life or something, just stop talking to you?

 _::PRal 09:32_ – No, he’s not. To both.

 _bosshard 09:32_ – exactly. so it doesn’t mean jack shit if he gets pissy about this.

 _bosshard 09:32_ – it’ll probably be shitty, i’m not saying it won’t, but … like YOU said you’re an adult, and you get to decide how you wanna spend your life.

 _::PRal 09:33_ – **_Who_** I want to spend my life with now.

 _bosshard 09:33_ – aha …. that too.

 _bosshard 09:33_ – i mean fuck nag, my family doesn’t approve of everything i do.

 _bosshard 09:34_ – if it were up to my mom, you’d be moving here. and we’d be moving into the little cottage next door. and we’d get married and have kids immediately. nevermind you don’t speak french, or couldn’t get a fcking job here. she’s figured out the best horse for her whole grandkids as fast as possible thing is us, so who cares about the details.

 _::PRal 09:35_ – Are you trying to tell me something? :P

 _bosshard 09:35_ – ABSOLUTELY NOT.

 _::PRal 09:36_ – You’re getting pretty defensive, Auruo.

 _bosshard 09:36_ – i was just –

 _bosshard 09:36_ – geez! it was just

 _bosshard 09:36_ – i was just givin an example

 _::PRal 09:36_ – Mhm.

 _bosshard 09:37_ – just bc its something she wants doesn’t mean its what i want

 _bosshard 09:37_ – now or – or anytime

 _bosshard 09:37_ – alright???

 _::PRal 09:37_ – Calm down, Auruo.

 _bosshard 09:38_ – you calm down.

 _::PRal 09:38_ – For the record, I think it’s sweet. And you’re right, anyway.

 _bosshard 09:39_ – of course i am

::PRal 09:39 – Ok he left the house. Give me a minute and I’ll call you.

 _bosshard 09:39_ – god, finally.

 _bosshard 09:39_ – getting shit from you is a lot better when i can hear it in your voice

 _::PRal 09:40_ – In a few days, you’ll get to see my face while I’m at it too.

 _bosshard 09:40_ – im the luckiest guy in the world

 _::PRal 09:40_ \--  <3

 

-9 days left-

 _bosshard 13:15_ – did you check with the lease people yet

 _::PRal 13:15_ – Ughhhhhh I knew I forgot something

 _bosshard 13:15_ – you??? forget something????

 _bosshard 13:15_ – you feelin ok nag????

 _::PRal 13:16_ – You’re SO funny …

 _::PRal 13:16_ – You know, I’m a little stressed these days.

 _::PRal 13:16_ – Coordinating the delivery for your things to an apartment we technically don’t even own yet is taking some doing. Not to mention packing up all my own belongings. And dealing with my father. And a billion other little things on my list.

 _bosshard 13:16_ – well youre not gonna have to do it alone for long, ok?

 _bosshard 13: 16_ – christ i want to get over there

 _bosshard 13:16_ – i looked at ticket prices again today

 _::PRal 13:16_ – At this point you’d only be saving a few days.

 _::PRal 13:17_ – It wouldn’t be worth the money.

 _bosshard 13:17_ – it’d be worth all the money in the world to see you

 _::PRal 13:18_ \-- !!!!!!!!!!

 _::PRal 13:18_ – I’m saving this.

 _::PRal 13:18_ – I’m screenshotting it. I’m going to put it on facebook. And send it to all our friends.

 _bosshard 13:18_ – don’t even fcking think about it

 _::PRal 13:19_ – Too late.

 _::PRal 13:19_ \-- :)

 

 

-8 days left-

 

 _bosshard 18:40_ – i mean it tho

 _bosshard 18:40_ – im sick of waiting

 _bosshard 18:40_ – i cant do this waiting shit anymore

 _::PRal 18:44_ – Auruo …

 _bosshard 18:44_ – you know what i mean?? it’s like 8 days became 8 fcking years when i wasn’t paying attention.

 _bosshard 18:45_ – it’s the longest fcking 8 days ever recorded in history. i have to get up and work and talk to people and go to sleep and its 8 more days of that shit until my life can actually start

 _::PRal 18:45_ – We’ve gotten through six months of this, Auruo. A few more days

 _bosshard 18:46_ –  is this where you tell me im being dramatic

 _::PRal 18:46_ – …

 _bosshard 18:52_ – petra?

 _::PRal 18:52_ – I hate this.

 _::PRal 18:53_ – When you’re all stressed and unhappy the first thing I want to do is put my hands on your face or hug you or tug on your hair.

 _bosshard 18:53_ – that’d be so nice

 _::PRal 18:55_ – And it just kind of hit me all at once a minute ago, how much I’ve wanted to do that over these last few months, and instead I just kind of hold myself or pinch my elbow, or bite my cheek; I stare at your words on the screen and get frustrated because you’re on the other side of it, on the other side of the world, and I can’t do anything about it.

 _::PRal 18:56_ – And I’m telling you not to be upset or frustrated because it’s kind of this impulse by now, if someone is upset – if you’re upset. To try and put it in perspective, so it won’t feel so big – so you don’t have to be so upset.

 _::PRal 18:57_ – But you’re right. I’m sick of waiting too. I don’t have anything nice to say about it.

 _::PRal 18:58_ – I’m so tired of this.

 _bosshard 19:00_ – babe …

 _bosshard 19:00_ – i wasn’t tryin to upset you

 _bosshard 19:01_ – its like you said, right? 8 days isn’t that long 

 _::PRal 19:01_ – You didn’t upset me. I’m just upset and tired of pretending I’m not upset.

 _::PRal 19:02_ – This morning I woke up at 4am and I thought you were there – the blankets were all twisted in such a way that it almost looked like you, the way you looked when we met last. All sprawled out in bed. And it was so lovely and I missed you so much, and I was still half asleep so I reached over to touch you but my hand passed right through.   

 _::PRal 19:03_ – It’s stupid, right? Of course it wasn’t going to be you. But I was still in the dream, enough to feel like it really was you there. Even though it wasn’t, and it wouldn’t be for another 8 days.

 _bosshard 19:03_ – why didn’t you tell me?

 _::PRal 19:03_ – And make you unhappy about it too?

 _bosshard 19:05_ – petra … look. you talkin about it or not, i’d still be unhappy about it. over here, marinating in how shitty this fcking situation is. that we had to meet online, that we had to live apart and get to know each other through skyping and emails when every other asshole got to know their partner by going on dates … watching them laugh over shitty dinner. do you know how much i want that with you?  

 _bosshard 19:05_ – god, on the other side of the world you were in your bed and you were reaching for me and i wasn’t there

 _bosshard 19:06_ – yeah im going to be fcking mad about it. im going to ache over it.

 _::PRal 19:08_ – Me too.

bosshard 19:08 – screw this. im calling you. if your dad has a problem with it, he can respectfully go blow it out his asshole.

 _::PRal 19:09_ – As long as you don’t mind listening to my gross crying

 _bosshard 19:09_ –  i’d rather listen to that than just about anything else right now, to be honest with you

 _bosshard 19:09_ – except for you laughin

 _bosshard 19:10_ – or moanin

 _bosshard 19:10_ \--  >:)

 

 

-7 days left-

 _::PRal 10:32_ – Hey.

 _::PRal 10:32_ – One week :D

 _bosshard 10:57_ – that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today

 _bosshard 10:57_ – seems a lot closer once you get inside the week, doesn’t it??

 _bosshard 10:57_ – or am i crazy

 _::PRal 11:01_ – You’re definitely crazy … but you’re right, too.

 _bosshard 11:02_ – wrappin up at work and then i’m done here forever

 _bosshard 11:03_ – lmao you know mr. gauthier was like boy we’ll sure miss you auruo, you’re such a hard worker blah blah. this guy’s been on my ass for about three straight years now, and all the sudden we’re the best of friends and he’s gonna think fondly of me livin it up in the states over wine or some shit

 _::PRal 11:03_ – Aww … he’s feeling sentimental.

 _::PRal 11:04_ – He’ll miss yelling at you.

 _bosshard 11:05_ – i’m laughing bc he clearly thought i felt the same, like i had all these fond memories of this dump. oh yeah. sure. big time, tons of lovely memories to take with me, like the time you got in my face for escalating a case to the wrong developer team, as if i’d somehow broken the entire structure of this shitty company by making such a grievous error. i’ll never forget any of you.

 _::PRal 11:06_ – You know most offices are like that.

 _bosshard 11:06_ – course i know that shit. i’m just saying keep it on those terms instead of pretending we’re big close friends now that i’m leaving forever.

 _::PRal 11:07_ – Forever, huh? That’s pretty optimistic.

 _::PRal 11:08_ – Maybe I’m just using you for your body, Bossard.

 _::PRal 11:08_ – Maybe I’ll get bored.

 _bosshard 11:08_ – uh huh. sure you will

 _bosshard 11:08_ – my body huh?  >:)

bosshard 11:09 – you finally going to admit you like what i got?

 _::PRal 11:09_ – Nope.

 _bosshard 11:09_ – someday.

 _::PRal 11:10_ – Don’t hold your breath.

 _::PRal 11:11_ \-- ;)

 

 

-6 days left-

 _bosshard 04:39_ – nag?

 _::PRal 06:21_ – Sorry, I’m here.

 _::PRal 06:36_ – Auruo?

 _bosshard 09:11_ – ok im here i think

 _bosshard 09:15_ – aaaaand youre not, ofc

 _bosshard 09:16_ – alright well i’ll tell you anyway, and you can read it when you get back from fist fighting our new landlord or whatever

 _bosshard 09:18_ – i was packing up shit in my room and i found this weird toy our old neighbor made before he died – like this windup bird thing. its creepy and awesome, it was probably my favorite thing when i was a brat. anyway it’s a cool fcking thing but not something i could bring with me, you know? so i gotta figure out what the hell to do with it

 _bosshard 09:20_ – benoit wants it immediately. which means that christophe wants it. which means they all want it. five brats all yelling about this weird stupid toy that none of them will actually play with. benoit’s all lip trembly because he thinks it should go to him, because he’s going to miss me the most. christophe thinks it should go to him because according to him benoit always gets what he wants and we can’t have that, now can we

 _bosshard 09:22_ – so i’m trying to herd the circus and it hits me that i’m not going to be able to do this hardly at all anymore, since if ma wants me to pull the ELDEST card she’s going to have to pull me up on skype and then wrangle the monsters in front of the computer so i can talk to them, and we all know how likely something like that is to happen

 _bosshard 09:25_ – i dunno … it kinda got to me. i have this stupid toy in my hands, and the blue paint’s all chipped, and you can barely see the little painted eye mr. reyer had done, and all five of my brothers just crying and squabbling at my feet, and it just kind of hit me in this weird awful way – like this distant kind of realization. one that sinks in after a long time, kinda quiet almost.

 _bosshard 09:26_ – i told them they all had to share it. and if they didn’t ma would smash the toy right in front of their faces because she’s got no time for this squabbly bullshit, and they got all upset and drew up a schedule right there in front of me – benoit keeps the schedule since he’s 2 nd oldest and the most responsible.

 _bosshard 09:27_ –logically i know this stuff, because we’ve all talked about it before. i’ll make better money in a big city than ever before, and maybe i can start payin off their debt and get them moved over here. i think they’d like it – they all speak english, you know. even francois, his own toddler mish-mash version.

 _bosshard 09:36_ – but i dunno nag … guess i’m feeling kinda guilty for ditching them.

 _bosshard 09:38_ – because it’s really starting to feel like i am. being this close to leaving.

 _bosshard 09:39_ – dunno ..

 _::PRal 11: 02_ – I’m so sorry!! I’m here now.

 _::PRal 11:15_ – Auruo?

 _::PRal 11:16_ – Okay, well. It’s fair to feel guilty – I feel guilty about leaving my dad. It’s different, of course – I know that.

 _::PRal 11:17_ – My point is that just because you feel a little wrong about it doesn’t mean that it’s wrong – just that it’s difficult for everyone. It doesn’t make you bad wanting to get your life started in a new place with – with me. Especially because you’re only doing so in a way that lets you support them too.

 _::PRal 11:19_ – After I get this promotion, we’ll really be able to help them out. We might even be able to pay for them to visit! I do get some pretty sizable bonuses, you know.

 _::PRal 11:23_ – By the way, I was _not_ fist-fighting our landlord.

 _::PRal 11:14_ – We just exchanged … words.

 _::PRal 11:14_ – Honestly, considering the size of the deposit, there is absolutely zero chance I’ll be negligent with that money.

 _::PRal 11:15_ – Do you know how many little problems I found this morning??? Scuffs and dings and tricky faucets? I opened one cupboard and it literally came off in my hands!!!!

 _::PRal 11:16_ – I told our landlord in no uncertain terms would we be signing off on such a condition. You know that’s how they get you – they hide all these issues in the apartment and you sign your precheck and then when it’s time to leave they have this huge list of problems ready to go that they use to cheat you out of your deposit.

 _::PRal 11:17_ – I told him that not only would I not sign, but if they wanted to see our money at all they better fix these issues or we’ll find another place to live.

 _::PRal 11:18_ – He was less than pleased.

 _bosshard 14:43_ – hahahahahahah

 _bosshard 14:43_ – that’s my girl.

 _bosshard 14:49_ – we have to get a new apartment now, don’t we

 _::PRal 14:50_ – Maybe.

 _bosshard 14:50_ – there you are.

 _::PRal 14:51_ – To answer your snotty little aside, no he didn’t terminate our lease. It’s just that I don’t know if I want to sign a contract with such a tricky, underhanded person! One who will literally be responsible for our living situation!!!

 _bosshard 14:51_ – babe …

 _::PRal 14:51_ – I know.

 _bosshard 14:52_ – we can’t be picky right now.

 _bosshard 14:52_ – i know! hearing me say shit like that. i’m the pickiest piece of shit ever to live. like fuck do i want to live in some shitty hovel with a douchebag landlord that spent his tuesday trying to cheat the love of my life.

 _bosshard 14:52_ – but it’s temporary.

 _::PRal 14:58_ \-- !!!!!!!!

 _bosshard 14:58_ – what

 _::PRal 14:58_ – You said I’m the love of your life.

 _bosshard 14:59_ – yeah, and??? you gonna make a giant deal out of it?

 _::PRal 14:59_ – You’re damn right.

 

-5 days left-

 _bosshard 03:13_ – you there?

 _::PRal 03:13_ – Auruo? Is everything alright???

 _::PRal 03:13_ – It’s so late where you are.

 _bosshard 03:13_ – can’t sleep.

 _::PRal 03:14_ – Yeah, I’m not sleeping that well either.

 _::PRal 03:14_ – Anything in particular bothering you?

 _bosshard 03:15_ – you’ll yell at me if i tell you

 _::PRal 03:15_ \-- …..

 _::PRal 03:15_ – Now you really have to tell me.

 _bosshard 03:16_ – when was the last time we were together? it’s been like … five years? 800?

 _::PRal 03:16_ – It was three months.

 _bosshard 03:17_ – alright well it feels like 800 years.

 _::PRal 03:17_ – I wouldn’t yell at you for saying that!

 _bosshard 03:18_ – i was just remembering you and – that thing you wore, that lacy thing. what the shit was that all about, huh? like you wanted me to think of nothing else but that for the rest of my life. well mission accomplished, petra ral – i am thinking about it, and everything else we did that week. hard.

 _::PRal 03:19_ \-- !!!!!!!!!!

 _::PRal 03:20_ –  Are you seriously telling me your boner is keeping you awake.

 _bosshard 03:21_ – well, i put it a lot nicer than you did.

 _::PRal 03:22_ – So let me tell you my favorite memory from that weekend.

 _bosshard 03:22_ – what??

 _::PRal 03:23_ – So my plane lands and it’s taxi-ing over the tarmac and you’re waiting for me in the airport, and I’m just about jumping out of my skin at this point – scared and nervous and excited. Mostly excited, which was the weirdest part for me. You were a stranger! That I met on the internet! I’d set up something with a friend in case you gave me a bad feeling, I’d planned everything out, but I was still so nervous – because I wanted it to work. I liked you more than I’d ever liked anyone.

 _::PRal 03:25_ – And we meet and it’s magical, of course – I see you in the airport and you don’t see me at first, but I know it’s you. I recognized you. And you wrap me up in your arms and spin me around like in a movie, and it’s so cliché and I can’t imagine loving anything more because you weren’t putting on a show, you did it because you were buzzing and so was I and it was just right.

 _::PRal 03:29_ – The whole ride to the hotel I’m inching closer and closer to you in the backseat of the cab. I didn’t even notice the old stain on the seat until we were climbing out of it, that’s how distracted I was. I’d figured beforehand that I wasn’t the kind of person who sleeps with a guy on the first date, not that I think there’s anything wrong with that exactly – I just wanted to make sure that you were serious. Who knows, you could have been the kind of guy who would spent hundreds of dollars in plane fare and other traveling expenses trying to get laid. After four months we’re finally getting our first date, so I wasn’t going to do anything to make it weird or screw it up somehow. But you’re sitting next to me, keeping a respectful distance because of _course_ you were, and your leg is bouncing and I just want you – all these months of looking at each other on a webcam and you’re finally there, close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss. So I pounce.

 _::PRal 03:30_ – We barely get to the hotel room. We probably embarrassed the cab driver with our carrying on. (Especially with the noises you were making!)

 _bosshard 03:30_ – you were the one moaning!

 _::PRal 03:31_ – Oh hush.

 _::PRal 03:32_ – And we’re kissing like we’ll never get to kiss again for the rest of our lives – like we’d been waiting to. I don’t know how long we spent just doing that – just kissing. I can’t even call it ‘just kissing’ now, because it was better than anything else I’d done with a man – and some of those men were show offs, you know. You get all hesitant pulling at my clothes, so I have to move your hands, to let you know it’s alright. And then you’re

 _::PRal 03:33_ – I’ve never been loved like that in my life. Like you needed me.

 _bosshard 03:34_ – i do, petra ..

 _::PRal 03:35_ – I bring it up to give you a little warning. In just a few days you’re going to land and I’ll be waiting for you. We’re going to move into our new home together. And we’ll do all these little things I’ve been waiting to do for so long, like go shopping together and make dinner or take a bath and lie there in the water until we get all pruney. But before any of that happens, I’m warning you right now.

 _::PRal 03:36_ – The second I get you in our bed, we’re going to stay there until I’m satisfied. And that probably won’t be for a few days, at least. We’ll order delivery and eat in bed right before I get on top of you and ride you until your eyes cross. We’ll fuck and shower and sleep, and you’ll wake up with me kissing my way down. Every possible way you could think of wanting it, you’ll have twice over.

 _bosshard 03:36_ – holy shi

 _::PRal 03:37_ – So you better save up your strength. Because I’ve got about three months of needing you built up. And I expect it to be addressed.

 _bosshard 03:40_ – you’re on.

 

-4 days left-

 _::PRal 07:30_ – Thinking about last night ;)

 _bosshard 07:51_ – thinking about a few nights in the future

 _::PRal 07:51_ – That too.

 _::PRal 07:51_ – It’s so close!! It’s so much more frustrating this close, you know what I mean? Like before you kind of numb yourself so you’re not looking at how much longer it’s going to be, but now you can’t help but to fixate.

 _bosshard 07:52_ – i have a countdown on my phone

 _::PRal 07:54_ – Me too.

 _::PRal 07:54_ – Before Dad left this morning he saw me grinning at it. I think he assumed I was talking to you because it made him very cranky.

 _bosshard 07:55_ – mr. ral you are going to LOVE me when we meet face to face!!! i’m way more charming irl than on the phone.

 _::PRal 07:55_ – Because it’s easy to seem improved when you literally started from the bottom.

 _bosshard 07:55_ – ouch!!! geez nag, eat my heart in front of me why don’t you

 _bosshard 07:56_ – you are stone cold, babe.

 _bosshard 07:56_ – fcking vicious

 _::PRal 07:56_ – You love it.

 _bosshard 07:57_ – hell yeah i do.

 

-3 days left-

 _::PRal 22:14_ – Auruo?

 _::PRal 22:14_ – I told my dad.

 _::PRal 22:15_ – He was … not happy.

 _::PRal 22:16_ – I think if mom were still around, she’d be able to talk him around this kind of stuff. I know she’d like you – she’d like how sweet you are under all that rough talk. But he makes up his mind about someone and just – that’s it, that’s the end of it. He’ll never change his mind.

 _::PRal 22:16_ – He said –

 _bosshard 22:16_ – sorry babe, i’m here. what did he say?

 _::PRal 22:17_ – I shouldn’t tell you. I mean, you’ll probably hold a grudge.

 _bosshard 22:17_ – what, bc he called me a mean name? i’ll get over it.

 _::PRal 22:18_ – He said – I mean, he was angry. He wasn’t really thinking.

 _bosshard 22:18_ – what did he say????

 _::PRal 22:20_ – He … well, maybe it’s a different generation.

 _bosshard 22:20_ – he call you a whore or something? his own kid?

 _::PRal 22:20_ – He was upset.

 _bosshard 22:21_ – well then! your dad’s on my shitlist.

 _bosshard 22:21_ – what; he thinks he can say all that shit to you bc you’re moving in with someone he doesn’t like? that’s what this is. if you were with that one rich guy he set you up with, he’d be all over it. he’d practically roll out the red fucking carpet. but it’s me, it’s someone YOU picked for yourself, and i’m shitty and poor and i don’t have anything to offer so

 _::PRal 22:22_ – Yes, you do.

 _::PRal 22:22_ – He’ll apologize, and in the meantime I’m not going to worry about it. I’m at the new place now.

 _::PRal 22:23_ – So it’ll be broken in a little bit when you get here.

 _bosshard 22:24_ – fuck your dad.

 _::PRal 22:25_ – Hey. After you’ve been here awhile and he sees that this isn’t some shifty shady thing, he’s going to feel really stupid. And he’ll apologize. To both of us. In the meantime, I’m not going to let it upset me. Because I’m out of his house and I’m sitting in the middle of our empty living room with a bottle of plum wine and some Chinese food and I’m happy.

 _bosshard 22:26_ – you sure?

 _bosshard 22:26_ – risking wine stains on new carpet does not sound like a happy petra thing

 _::PRal 22:26_ – Yes, yes; you’re good. You know me so well.

 _bosshard 22:27_ – damn straight.

 _::PRal 22:27_ – I’m a little sad too. But I’m mostly happy. Tomorrow the couch and bed we picked out are getting delivered. And the internet guy is going to get here and hook things up. So when you get here in less than three days, it’s already going to feel like a little home.

 _bosshard 22:28_ – it’d’ve felt that way even without you doing all this stuff.

 _::PRal 22:28_ – You are such a sap sometimes … :)

 

-2 days left-

 _bosshard 16:21_ – hey, uh

 _::PRal 16:21_ \-- ??

 _bosshard 16:21_ – i love you

 _::PRal 16:21_ \-- !!!!

 _bosshard 16:21_ – i’m going out of my fcking skull over how much

 _bosshard 16:21_ – everyone here is sick of hearing your name

 _bosshard 16:21_ – (not really)

 _bosshard 16:22_ – god you ever get hit in the face with how real it is? how nuts? i’m going to see you tomorrow. i’m gonna be able to kiss you. i get to go home with you.

 _bosshard 16:23_ – this isn’t a joke, right?

 _::PRal 16:23_ – no, Auruo.

 _::PRal 16:23_ – I’ve never been more serious about anything. Or more sure.

 _bosshard 16:24_ – alright … good.

 _bosshard 16:24_ – me either.

 _bosshard 16:24_ – ma was like you should pack something to do! it’s such a long flight you’ll be so bored!! i had to explain i’m literally just going to be sitting there buzzing and getting weird looks from my neighbors and there is no way in hell i’m going to be able to concentrate on a book or a game or some shit, no fucking way, not when seeing your face is just a few hours in the future. i’ll be lucky if i can take a nap.

 _::PRal 16:25_ – You’re going to be so jet-lagged ….

 _bosshard 16:25_ – don’t care.

 _bosshard 16:25_ – no i wont

 _bosshard 16:26_ – watch what happens when i see your face nag. i’ll stay up another week straight.

 _::PRal 16:26_ – You will, huh …

 _bosshard 16:27_ – well, for that too.

 _bosshard 16:27_ – but mostly

 _bosshard 16:27_ – sleep is – it’s like wasting time i could’ve spent

 _::PRal 16:28_ – Oh come on … don’t leave me hanging!

 _bosshard 16:28_ – nah … i had one of those out of body experiences, ‘cept this time it’s the kind where you’re watching yourself act like a complete sappy idiot.

 _::PRal 16:29_ – Which you are.

 _bosshard 16:29_ – yeah

 _::PRal 16:29_ – For me.

 _bosshard 16:29_ – yeah

 _bosshard 16:29_ – i love you.

 _::PRal 16:30_ – I love you, Auruo! I’m going to see you tomorrow!!!

 _::PRal 16:30_ – I’m going to unpack and clean and get some groceries and cook a bit and try to distract myself if I can, even though I’ll probably end up just sitting on the new couch bouncing my leg and chewing my fingers off, trying to speed up time.

 _bosshard 16:31_ – maybe it’ll work ‘cause we both are.

 

 

 

-1 day left-

 _bosshard 05:00_ – holy shit

 _bosshard 07:34_ – holy shit

 _bosshard 09:12_ – holy shit

 _bosshard 10:34_ – _holy shit_

 _bosshard 11:50_ – here’s how much i like you, petra ral

 _bosshard 11:50_ – _i hate flying_

 _bosshard 11:50_ – see you soon


	29. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> petruo week day 2: secret

As she watched a pair of her coworkers wrangle an outrageously oversized tree into the office, Petra thought dimly that it was official; her job at the Herald tainted everything good about the outside world. A Christmas tree was a lovely tradition and the value of the time spent hanging its branches with meaningful trinkets could not be overstated, so it stood to reason that her boss would take the gesture and distort it into some sad obligation.

“Careful,” he chided when two IT techs accidentally knocked a ceiling pane out of place with the tip of the tree. “Don’t want that to come out of your paycheck.”

It was a poor joke from the mouth of a boss, made even worse by the suspicion that it wasn’t a joke at all.  Regardless, it sucked the air from the room as effectively as explosive decompression might; the techs glowered, none more impressively than the subject of her observation; a lanky, ashy-blond man who sucked at his teeth and muttered foul obscenities when Mr. Baker sauntered back to his office.

Auruo, she corrected herself grudgingly. He was disagreeable and smug, sharp and crass, and quite possibly the most irritating of her coworkers, but at the very least he deserved to be known by his full name, even if in the privacy of her thoughts.

She frowned as he pushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen in his eyes, frustrated by the set of his mouth; one fine brow quirked up when he noticed her stare.

“See something you like?”

She bristled at his tone. “Yeah – the tree.”

“Uh huh. You came all the way out of your perch to watch the tree.”

“And why not? It’s my break.”

“Right.”

She fumed; perhaps the most irritating thing about Auruo Bossard at this moment, more than his smug affect, was that he had guessed her intentions. Sort of. She would adamantly deny having any interest in the man, but her vigil in the break room was not an innocent excursion.

It was reconnaissance.

~

Two weeks ago, she had drawn the most inconvenient name for the Christmas secret gift swap – out of hundreds of employees at the Herald, she’d selected the slip of paper with his name on it (the scrawl hasty and nearly illegible, of course – can’t expect Auruo Bossard to do anything properly). She’d spent the entire afternoon staring daggers at the back of his head as he hunched over his desk, cursing everything from his cheap button-down shirt to his odd haircut, but most of all, her abysmal luck.

“Why not ask if you can switch up?” Zoe asked, leaning atop her desk, a high semi-circle at the front of the office.

“Ask Mr. Baker for a favor, right.” Petra huffed, flicking the accursed scrap of paper across her keyboard. “Because he’s so accommodating.”

“I don’t see what the big problem is,” Zoe continued. “Just get him something boring. Like a package of hangers or … I don’t know. Socks.”

“Absolutely not,” Petra said firmly. “That’s the kind of thing _he’d_ do.”

“Hm.”

“I’m serious. I’m going to get him the most perfect, thoughtful present he’s ever gotten in his life, better than anything he’d get from his family. Maybe it’ll encourage him to be nicer.”

Zoe’s grin acquired a knowing edge. “Sounds like a worthwhile use of your time and money. Especially for someone you don’t like.”

Petra watched her wander back to her cubicle, fuming; now she would be forced to widen her irritable survey to include her wayward, backstabbing friend. Zoe just didn’t understand; it was the _principle_ of the thing, that was all. It was Christmas; you didn’t just give someone a package of socks, unless they really needed them. You gave them something that _meant_ something, even if they were an irritating jerk.

~

In those first weeks her reconnaissance was marked only by failure. Auruo interpreted her stiff questions as legitimate, which turned him from a coarse, unfriendly presence into a smug one. He was prone to leaning over the top of her desk with affected ease, carelessly tucking that stubborn curl out of his eyes as he plied her with unfunny jokes and other distracting nonsense. They were hazel, she noted irritably. It wasn’t fair that such an annoying man could have something as lovely as eyes the color of autumn, yet there they were, decorated by fringy eyelashes.

Desperate to put a stop to these awkward interviews, she decided to snoop around his desk in search of inspiration. It wasn’t something she’d normally condone, but she couldn’t stand any more contact with Auruo Bossard, not after everything that had happened.

It was perfect; as the receptionist, she was always the first person to arrive in the morning anyway. She moved through the ghostly office floor, slipping between cubicles like a trespasser on holy ground, her nerves thrilling. His desk was wedged in the back corner almost as if an afterthought, strewn with chewed pencaps and some technical manuals she didn’t understand.

Her nose wrinkled. _Gross._

Sifting through his drawers would be crossing a line, she decided. She poked around the various piles of paperwork on his desk, but all of it was related to work – she’d been so thrilled with her idea that she hadn’t considered Auruo could be one of sad people who kept their work spaces devoid of personal touches. _Of course he is_ , she thought grumpily. It wouldn’t be fair if this whole thing could be wrapped up so easily.

Before she fled, however, she glimpsed a pair of pictures taped to the frame of his computer monitor. She craned closer and fished her phone out of her pocket to light the faces. The first picture was a group of smiling people, as these kinds of pictures usually were; an older man and woman, Auruo, and five much younger boys. With a pang, she realized this must be his family.

They stood in front of what looked like Lake Michigan. His mother laughed and clutched a wide-brimmed sunhat as a gust of wind nearly carried it away, balancing a toddler on her ample hip. Two of his brothers were giving each other bunny ears, jabbing their fingers into each other’s ribs as each caught sight of the other’s scheme. His father held a bundle of sandy-towels in his arms and smiled with his eyes closed. The second-oldest stood next to Auruo in a tender mimicry of Auruo’s posture; arched brow, half-grin.

The second picture was of Auruo and his miniature doppelganger; Auruo’s hair was light and his brother’s was dark, but they shared the same strong featured face, the same jawline, the same nose. They stood with their arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling wide enough to hurt. She found herself imagining the joke that made the pair laugh so openly.

He looked nothing like the man she knew from work, the insufferable jerk, smug and annoyed by turns. There was earnest joy in his eyes, and her stomach curled at the sight. It was impossible to look at these pictures and not realize that he must deeply love his family, that he was indeed capable of it. 

_Gift idea: picture frames. Nice ones._

_~_

Frustrated by her lack of progress, she decided to swallow the last of her pride and initiate a pointed conversation – in the interest of fact finding, of course. At her break, she shrugged into her navy pea coat and took the elevator to the ground floor, bundling her hands inside the sleeves as she pushed into the slate grey afternoon. Outside, bare tree branches shivered in a slight breeze, and dead leaves turned cartwheels over the sidewalk, skittering around her ankles before disappearing around the corner.

It wasn’t long before she spied her target, slouched against the wall with a cigarette clamped between his fingers. He stared out into the far distance, the hazy skyline like old teeth against the grey, and the rush of the lake just behind, out of sight. Absently, he tapped the base of the cigarette to slough off excess ash, his shoulders hiking halfway to his ears, and for a moment he didn’t look anything like the code jockey she loved to hate – he looked rugged and interesting, a man of depth and perspective, one whose multitudes barely tolerated the confines of his physical self. But it was ruined when he saw her approaching; that northern look faded, replaced by his familiar shit-eating grin.

“What’re you doing out here?” he asked her, taking a slow drag and exhaling out of the side of his mouth. “Couldn’t go a whole half-hour without mooning at me, huh?”

“Hardly. I wanted some fresh air,” Petra said with as much dignity as she could muster. “You’re just in my spot.”

“Your spot, right, right. Of course. How rude of me.”

She shot him a look of deep censure. “If you’re going to be annoying, I’ll have to insist you leave.”

“Because it’s _your_ spot. I mean, you pay rent and all. Taxes, upkeep. Since you do all that, you got every due to kick my disrespectful ass out.”

“Disrespectful is right,” she muttered. “I suppose as long as you behave, I don’t see why you can’t stay a little longer.”

“How magnanimous of you,” he grinned.

God, he was annoying. She shrugged deeper into her coat, bunching it so high around her shoulders that the wool collar scraped against her cheek. The trees behind them creaked in the wind, branch-tips shivering. It took her a moment to notice his outstretched hand, a fresh cigarette clamped between his fingers. “You want one?”

“What?”

“Cigarette.” He waved the offending object under her nose. “You want?”

She gaped at him. What business did he have offering her anything? Being polite? Never mind that cigarettes were completely disgusting. “No, thank you. You probably shouldn’t either,” she added before she could stop herself.

“I shouldn’t?”

“They’re bad for you,” she said lamely, her cheeks warming. “They’ll ruin your teeth.”

He took another drag. “My teeth aren’t ruined.”

“Not yet, anyway. They’ll make your breath smell awful.”

“Heavens.”

She could feel her temper rising. “And your clothes, and your car and apartment. Though I suppose if you don’t have a problem with smelling like an old ash tray you shouldn’t let me stop you.”

“I don’t smell like that.”

“You definitely smell like a smoker.”

He regarded her sidelong, a slow grin curving his clever mouth (and she tried not to let her gaze linger too long on his lips, how surprisingly soft they appeared, despite his revolting choice in oral fixation.) “You know, Petra …” he ducked his head, flicking his cigarette butt into the trash with long fingers, “kinda seems like you came out here just to give me a hard time ‘bout my personal habits.”

Her blush acquired new intensity under the weight of his stare, his smile – far larger than she had allowed, far more luminescent than it seemed from across the room, behind various methods of obnoxious distraction. She felt herself chased by the unsteadiness in her gut, yet she straightened her back and looked at him head on, so he wouldn’t see how affected she was by this new foolishness.  “Someone ought to.”

_Gift idea: nicotine patches._

~

She didn’t come to work the next day expecting this slight shift to the left, accommodating her rigidity, her slow realizations. She showered and ate and took the Metra, brushing shoulders with unfriendly strangers, all with the assumption that she would continue on as before; staunchly annoyed by the space he occupied in her sight, bristling at some as of yet unspoken offense.

The morning was slow enough that the phone didn’t ring once, which allowed her to poke at her manuscript. Her words were sharp; the draft positively pouring from her fingers. She chased the cursor across the blank screen with such focus that the entire morning passed without her notice; the next time she looked up from the screen it was well after noon. Beyond the windows, the sun slid behind hazy grey clouds.

She leaned back in her chair, fingers splayed over humming keyboard. To her left, toward the back of the room, Auruo hunched at his own desk; only the top of his head was visible from her vantage point, curly tufts of ashy blond hair sticking out in disarray. God, he was a mess; couldn’t he just comb his stupid hair like a normal person once in his life? She felt an odd impulse to smooth the offending curl aside (and not for a better look at his eyes).

He stood. Stretched. Shrugged into his beat-up coat (the shoulder seams fraying) and wove through the maze of cubicles toward the door, his hands in his pockets. Palming the ever-present pack of cigarettes, she guessed. She forced herself to stare at her computer screen until he’d left, but he continued to nettle at her long after he’d gone outside, the thought of him a poorly latched window banging in a storm.

She didn’t actually want to talk to him. Of course not. He was smug and irritating. He chewed pencaps. He always seemed to have food stains on his shirts, which was disgusting. He had one of those annoying voices that she found herself thinking about much later, usually in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep.

But worst of his crimes was the first – on her first day of work. She’d been a fresh-out-of-college greenhorn with palms so slick that her fingers slid on the elevator buttons, wearing an outfit she’d planned almost a week in advance (a grey wool skirt and scallop collar blouse in a lovely cream that complimented her skin). On the whole her introductions had gone well, right up until Auruo.

She’d never forget this. He’d been working when she approached, long fingers flying over his keyboard, hunched to accommodate his lanky frame. She noticed he had a mole on the base of his neck when he turned; a retort had worked halfway out of his mouth when his gaze swept over her and he froze, a gangly deer in headlights. He looked at her and his eyes had gone a little wide and his cheeks went a little red, and she could feel it too – that same reaction coursing hot and heady through her veins, the same halt-skip of her heartbeat – but before she could smile at him his mouth contorted into something false.

“Carrots,” he’d said.

The heat in her stomach curdled. “Asshole!” she spat back.

So began a rivalry that had persisted for nearly a year. In the span of a second he’d taken her from interested to repulsed, furious, and done so by dredging up memories of her schoolyard bullies, tugging her bright auburn braids.  She would be damned if she let anyone make her feel bad about her hair again; hair that had inspired her artist boyfriends and girlfriends in college, hair that spilled like crackling fire across her shoulders in the sunlight. She liked her hair, dammit. 

_Gift idea: carrot baby food. Right to the face._

With a long sigh, she banished these thoughts. She wasn’t cruel. She could let bygones be bygones (maybe). She could attempt civility. She could get this insufferable jerk the best damn Christmas present he’d ever gotten in his life. That was all this was.

And to that end, she still hadn’t figured out what the heck to get him. With another sigh, she stood and snagged her jacket, clocking out and slipping through the doors.

He was in the same place he’d been yesterday, smoking and staring off into the distance.  He notched the cigarette between his lips and chafed his arms, but as soon as he caught sight of her approaching he dropped his arms and affected the smooth persona she roundly despised.

“We gonna make a habit of this?” he asked, ashing his cigarette.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered as she settled against the wall. She figured it better to maintain a circumspect distance, but even with an armspan between them she could have sworn faint heat emanated from him, the cold-reddened skin of his neck.

“Kinda feels like it’s becoming a habit,” he said. “I know how it is. You can’t resist my company or conversation. You’re insatiable for a taste of this _sparklin’_ wit.”

“Not really.” A skeptical arch of brow. “You think quite a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

“Well, if I don’t, who else will?”

She’d been prepared to retort in typical fashion, but as his words registered she fell silent, weighing his expression for the joke. If in earnest, it was a surprisingly self-effacing thing to come from Auruo, a notorious blowhard and braggart. At least, she’d assumed he was. He seemed to realize his misstep for he cleared his throat and shot her another grin, this one surprisingly unsteady. “Anyway.”

It was the first time she had seen anything beyond smug certainty or annoyance from him, and it left her reeling; were these reflections of his character, or something else? Something false? She surprised herself by taking pity on him. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“Wh -? Oh, nah.”

“I’m not interrupting any deep thoughts or anything?”

He snorted. “Oh, sure. Loads. Regular Nietzsche, here.”

She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. A week ago she might have assumed his words were serious, but the awkward joke had shattered her preconceived notions. _Gift idea: something by Nietzsche._

She huffed. “Either way … I won’t be too distracting. It’s just that the break room smells like burnt popcorn and it’s turning my stomach. Even your cigarettes are an improvement.”

He was instantly more animated. “Holy shit, right? Every damn day I get here and it’s like a concession stand exploded under my nose. Who the fuck is doing that?”

“It’s Mr. Baker, I’m positive,” she told him in a low whisper, oddly delighted by the conspiracy. “He has empty microwave popcorn boxes in his office.”

“Figures. If you’re gonna eat that shit, fine – it’s a waste of money, but I guess if you’re making as much as he does, it’s not much skin off your nose. But he could at least not burn every fuckin’ bag he makes, huh?”

She peered over at him. “A waste of money?”

“Oh, yeah.” He shrugged, scuffing the back of his undercut. “Cheaper to pop on the stove.”

“It tastes better too.”

“Yeah, that’s the idea.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe he burns it because he’s trying to get his money’s worth.”

“It’s still dumb.” But he ducked his head, flashing her a quick smile. “That microwave makes everything reek like burnt popcorn now. I had to start bringing cold lunches because the hot ones always come out tasting like the underside of some grimy high-school bleacher.”

She surprised herself by laughing. “That’s a good one.”

“Good what?”

“That’d be a funny way to put it in a book or something. Like if you were writing,” she explained clumsily. “Never mind. So you know what the underside of a bleacher would taste like from experience?”

He smiled at her – smiled! Not grinned or smirked or leered; an actual smile that lit up his eyes. A smile like the one in his pictures. Had she not been studying his face she might have missed it, might have dismissed it as a trick of the light or wishful thinking. There was Christmas music coming from the adjacent office’s lobby, and everyone knew Christmas music had the potential to alter perspective. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

It occurred to her at that moment that she’d managed to have a civil conversation with Auruo Bossard without once thinking about what an annoying jerk he was. It occurred to her that he was quite handsome when he smiled, that he was handsome in general, clad in his beat-up coat and haloed by winter light, grey as a gull’s wing. It occurred to her that she was staring, and she dropped her gaze to her shoes. “Maybe.”

_Gift idea: nosebleed tickets to a Bulls game with note attached – ‘bon apetit’._

~

If she had any brains she’d stop wasting her afternoon breaks on these odd excursions, standing in the freezing cold clutching her elbows, stamping her feet to encourage a little warmth back into her frozen, pump-clad toes. But Petra knew herself; she was horrifically stubborn, and she wouldn’t rest until that moment of purest inspiration struck, and she’d know exactly what to give him.

Never mind that all this attention seemed to be giving him the wrong idea. She couldn’t even really hold this against him, considering she’d been the one to seek him out. But there was no denying the effect it seemed to have on him, each subtle enough to make her question. At first he had merely craned around the parking lot until he saw her approach, at which point he relaxed and smiled, always too cool to beckon her over. Then he started waving (a cool, disaffected gesture at first, later accompanied by an earnest quirk of brow). Now, he slouched by her cubicle with that familiar grin, and she realized he wanted to walk down together.

A common enough progression. Over the last two weeks, they’d made a habit out of these meetings, despite his earlier comment. What surprised her was that she didn’t feel inconvenienced or annoyed by this development; rather, the sight of his strange face grinning down at her set a hot thrill coiling through her stomach. Even more surprising was that their conversations lacked the awkward pauses that characterized most of her dates these days; they rolled right along, exchanging barbs almost faster than she could think of them before moving to more serious topics.

And of these, there were plenty. She learned he played jazz piano, and he lived in a crummy studio on the south side. His family lived in Iowa. He could whistle entire concertos in a tone as sweet as anything she’d heard. He could sing even better. They agreed on most politics, shared a similar disdain for reality shows (though his involved watching said shows and making rude commentary).

Outside, it was snowing; a fringy halo of light slung around each street lamp. Petra buried her face deeper in the coarse wool of her coat collar and tried not to notice, but today there was a gouge on his cheek, and he kept scuffing the scab with his thumb.

“What happened?”

A smirk. “Why, you worried ‘bout me?”

“Just wondering who I should congratulate,” she retorted, her temper rearing.

But her barbs no longer seemed to faze him; he merely shrugged, amused. “My brother. He’s five. Chucked a toy car at my head.” His lips twitched. “You still wanna send him flowers?”

“Maybe I’ll send him some more toy cars to chuck at your head.”

“Ha! He’d like that.”

His laughter startled her. She was still reconciling this Auruo to the man she’d assumed from the beginning, the man who made cruel comments about strangers’ hair and thought himself a real winner, superior to the rest of the world. Each conversation brought her no closer to knowing what to give him; instead, these realizations revealed only more questions.

How could she have been so wrong about a person?

Frustrated and flustered in equal measure, she rounded on him. “Why did you say that thing about my hair?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You don’t remember?!” She swallowed the stab of hurt reopened. “My first day of work. I came over to say hi and introduce myself, and you said ‘carrots’. You seriously don’t remember?”

“Ah – geez.” She definitely wasn’t imagining the shamed color in his cheeks, his gaze carefully averted; he rubbed the back of his neck, a telltale gesture. “Where’s this coming from?”

“I was just – you know, I spent all this time thinking you were a massive jerk for what you said, and you’re actually kind of nice to talk to. Sometimes you’re even nice in general. Oh come on, don’t get all flustered about it, you are! So I –“ She swallowed, shoulders hitching once. “I just wanted to know why you said that.”

He took a long drag on his cigarette, and she noticed his fingers trembled slightly. Snowflakes caught in his eyelashes. “Look, did you ever read – god, this is embarrassing. You ever read _Anne of Green Gables_?”

“No?”

“Alright, well … fuck. It’s not really my kinda thing, but it’s Benoit’s favorite book, especially when he was little. I used to read it to him.” He took another drag, exhaling slow. “The main character’s a spitfire kinda girl, like you, I bet. I mean, like you probably were. And she’s got hair like yours, and freckles.”

“Okay …? What does that have to do with it?”

He shot her a slightly irritated look. “I’m getting to it! Christ.” He flicked the cigarette butt into the trash. “She’s this heads in the clouds dreamer type, always wandering around the forests making up shit, but she had a temper like you wouldn’t believe. There was this kid in her schoolhouse or whatever, Gilbert Blythe, liked to tease her. He’d tug on braids, call her carrots, ‘cause of her hair. I thought – well, it was dumb. It was the first thing I thought about when I saw you.”

She stared at him, his nervous fingers – his posture so achingly transparent. He hadn’t been trying to make fun of her; he’d only been making a reference to something he’d thought she’d know about. The last of her temper disappeared in a puff of stunned breath, billowing out in the air between them. “I didn’t know …”

“Yeah, well. There ya go.”

Silence, punctuated only by cars whizzing up and down the street and strains of Christmas music from the office next-door (‘O Holy Night’ this time).  “What did she do to him?”

“You think she did something, huh?”

“Well, you said she had a temper.”

He laughed ruefully. “She smashed her slate over his head.”

“Really?!”

“Hand to god.”

“But you don’t believe in god.”

“Hmph. Picky.”

She hugged her arms close, stamping her feet a little to warm her frozen toes. “I think I’ll read this book.”

“You’d probably like it.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. I bet you’re the type to get all moony over a book.”

“’Moony’, what does that even mean? Who doesn’t like a good story?”

“That’s not what I meant, dummy. I bet you ten bucks you’ll cry.”

“Dummy! Are you twelve?” In a fit of pique, she kicked a clump of grey snow onto his shoes. But far from irritating him, it made him laugh openly, and he kicked another clump right back at her.

“You’ll definitely cry,” he told her.

~

That night, she took a detour down Clark to slip inside her favorite bookstore before heading home. It was a little hole in the wall with narrow shelves, smelling faintly of aging paper and dust. She often spent her weekends in the overstuffed armchairs arranged around the windows and back corners, attempting to narrow down a pile of books as tall as her knee into just two or three (or four, or five …). The employees all knew her by name; the owner even liked to joke that her patronage was going to help him retire comfortably in half the time he’d planned. She didn’t mind. She was single and childless, which meant she had a lot of disposable income available to spend on books.

The owner was working the desk this evening, and he offered her a cheery wave when she pushed inside, a gust of frigid air and billowing snow chasing her heels. Above her head, a little bell chimed. “The usual stack?” he asked brightly.

“Just one today,” she said with an apologetic smile.

“Well, it’s only Tuesday.”

Normally she would take hours wandering through the shelves, trailing her fingers over the spines of each book as if by touch she could sense the story inside, a pearl within pages. But tonight she quickly found _Anne of Green Gables_ , paid for it, and walked the rest of the way back to her apartment. She had to resist the urge to read as she walked; as desperate as she was to dive into the story, she was a small woman walking alone after sundown, and while the streets were well lit, she wouldn’t take any chances.

She skimped on dinner, reheating some two-day old takeout instead of cooking something from scratch, and settled in her puffy couch with a glass of wine and the book. But soon the glass of wine sat forgotten. She slipped into the world of Avonlea as easily as one sinks into a warm bath, and in Anne she found a kindred spirit; a girl much like the one she’d been, passionate and determined, dreamy to no end. Carried away by her flights of fancy. A girl who slowly learned to reconcile her rich internal life with the world outside.

She read obsessively; into the early hours of morning, over breakfast and on the subway. When her coworkers arrived that morning, they found her with her nose buried in the book, her eyes roving over the pages. She was so engrossed she didn’t notice Auruo arrive until he notched his head over the top of the book, grinning down at her in that familiar, infuriating way.

“Enjoying yourself?”

She shook him off. “Do you mind?”

“Not a bit.” His grin widened. “I knew you were going to get it first thing.”

“Is that so.”

“Yep. You’re an open book. Pun absolutely intended. Have you gotten to the part yet?”

“No, not yet. And I never will if you keep distracting me,” she said, flapping her free hand at him.

He snickered and pushed away from her desk, weaving through the cubicles toward his desk. He wouldn’t have known this, not unless he had eyes in the back of his head, but she smiled briefly before setting the book aside and picking up the phone, settling into the routine of the morning.

She would eventually come to terms with this strange obsession – she would admit to herself that it wasn’t just the prospect of a good story that motivated her so deeply, or a protagonist that resembled her deepest character. Rather at the core of these legitimate reasons was a simple truth: she found that she wanted to understand him better. A story he’d read to his brother, one that colored enough of his perception to see in the people around him … well. As an amateur writer, it was aspirational.

As a woman, she found it deeply romantic.

~

That night she forgot dinner and the glass of wine entirely; she shuffled through her apartment banging into walls and corners, stubbing her toe on the coffee table. Even the ‘ow’ that slipped out was distant, swallowed by the noise from outside her apartment window – bleating horns, more Christmas music. Only the buzzing of her phone in her pocket startled her out of the story. 

_{ from: Auruo } how’s it comin_

_{ from: Petra } Do you mind???_

_{ from: Auruo } yikes!!_

_{ from: Auruo } i thought u were sposed to be a fast reader_

_{ from: Petra } I am! By the way, I got to the part. In fact, I’m almost finished._

_{ from: Auruo } haha!_

_{ from: Auruo } and?_

_{ from: Petra } You’re lucky there wasn’t anything on hand to smash over your head._

_{ from: Auruo} you said it._

_{ from: Auruo } whos ur favorite_

_{ from: Petra } They’re all lovely._

_{ from: Petra } The whole thing is lovely. You were right._

_{ from: Petra} I am inordinately fond of Matthew, though._

_{ from: Petra } And Gilbert, despite himself. And Anne, of course. And Marilla._

_{ from: Auruo } so everyone pretty much_

_{ from: Petra} Pretty much._

_{ from: Auruo } u cry yet_

_{ from: Petra } Yes …_

_{ from: Auruo } puffed sleeves?_

_{ from: Petra } How did you know????_

_{ from: Auruo } i’m a genius_

_{ from: Petra} Good one._

_{ from: Auruo } nah, seriously. u just said matthew was ur fav_

_{ from: Petra } Very clever … and I suppose you think you know me so well now, is that it?_

_{ from: Auruo } i’m getting there._

This was too much, far too much; she had to set her phone down and scrub at violently warm cheeks with flat palms, pulling her chin down in the collar of her sweater. For the first time, it occurred to her that he might share her odd fascination, that he perhaps sat at home and thought about things she might like, the things that made her. It couldn’t be mere luck for him to guess her thoughts so easily, or with such delight.  

_{ from: Petra } Well … same to you._

~

Thursday morning, he was waiting outside. He kicked a chunk of gristly ice against the side of the building like one might dribble a soccer ball, and she noticed that he was adept and surprisingly agile, even with his hands in his pockets. Maybe it wasn’t surprising. Those lanky types could be fast when they wanted to be, or when circumstances shaped them so.

Regardless, it had been the only thing to cheer her up since she finished the book at 4:36am, sobbing into a pillow so as not to wake up her neighbors. She sniffed and rubbed her red nose, and only then did he turn, brows shooting up into his hairline.

“Hey,” he called, grinning that wonderful grin, but it faltered when he saw her swollen eyes. “Ah … you finished it, huh.”

She nodded miserably. “You should have warned me.”

“Spoil a book you haven’t even read! I mean, it wasn’t all bad, was it?!”

“No, it wasn’t … I really loved it. More than I thought I would. It’s just the part about Matthew. And that wasn’t bad, just _sad_.”

“Yeah …” Auruo sighed, scuffing the back of his undercut. “Benoit used to cry at that part too. He’d get mad at me for trying to skip over it, though. He always had to hear the whole thing.”

This little admission – that Auruo had attempted to spare his brother something that made him unhappy – was so tender and lovely that her breath caught. She hugged her arms, shivering a little. “He sounds very wise. The good parts don’t land as well when it’s just happy and nice the whole time.”

“Yeah.” He glanced at her sidelong, badly masking his curiosity. “You sound like you’d know.”

“What?”

“”Bout that stuff. Setting it up.” His gestured impatiently. “Stories.”

He’d done it again; snatched a hidden piece of truth from her thoughts as easily as one might pluck an especially lovely stone from the beach. How could she have thought he was stupid? She surprised herself with an equally earnest confession: “Not as much as I’d like.”

“Hm.”

She shrugged, embarrassed by his attention. The subject made her awkward – she’d grown so accustomed to brushing off her silly efforts at fiction that she’d come to expect the unconscious dismissals – each jokingly derisive comment chipping away at her desire to share these fancies. Casting around for a new subject, she looked up at him. “Who was your favorite?”

“Hm?”

“Your favorite. Character.”

“Oh, geez. Well, uh. Who doesn’t like Anne, right?”

This surprised her; she thought he’d have found Anne annoying. “You liked Anne?”

“Sure. I like spitfires.” A grin she couldn’t parse – self-deprecating, almost. “I thought she was kinda spacy at first, but she says something after her fight with ole Gil, _‘The iron has entered my soul’_. I couldn’t stop thinking about that shit. What a way to put it, you know? The iron has entered my soul … And it wasn’t just talk either, she did. She didn’t talk to that shithead for years. Not even after he saved her life, even though she forgave him then, she still held right on and didn’t say shit to him. ‘S far as she was concerned, he was an asshole that wounded her pride and she wasn’t going to give him the time of day.”

This was cutting uncomfortably close to home. Petra shifted her weight from foot to foot, making anxious prints in the dirty snow. She felt like this was a truth of his own that he didn’t often share, yet here he was: standing close enough beside her that every now and then their arms brushed. “She did make peace with him, though. In the end.”

He was quiet a moment, chewing on the edge of his lip. “Yeah. I, uh …. I liked that she changed her mind, too.”

She forced herself to look at him head on, though at the moment she’d have liked nothing better to stare at her feet. “You’ve thought a lot about a book you claim not to like.”

“I’m telling you,” he said, kicking a chunk of ice away. “I’ve read it to Benoit probably fifty times, at least. I could recite the whole fuckin’ thing to you from memory.”

“Really? 

“Absolutely.”

“So do it.”

“Alas,” he said, pitching his voice portentously. “Now we must toil.” They pushed away from the prickly concrete and moved across the slick parking lot; when they approached the door, he held it open for her, and she tried not to notice the swooping lurch in her belly, her chest bubbling with something she didn’t know.

It was much later in the afternoon when she realized he hadn’t been smoking.

_Gift idea: …_

_~_

For the first time all week, she didn’t listen to music or read or do anything of substance when she took the subway home. She stared out the hazy window, watching Chicago’s skyline pitch and shimmer like young, unsteady stars. At the front of a car, an old man played Christmas carols on his accordion, singing along in a throaty tenor.

His thick fingers were surprisingly deft over the keys, and his face was turned up toward some unseen point above their heads, as if he played to God and God alone; the smile he wore was bright and young, somehow. And it was lovely, desperately so; any other night she would have watched him fully and smiled, but tonight the carol tinged her melancholy with something deeper, unwieldly and fierce.

She hadn’t gotten Auruo anything. She still didn’t know what to get him; each silly idea from the last few weeks spun around in her thoughts until she was dizzy from it, frustrated and vague. It had been such a simple plan; figure him out, give him a nice gift, and ... she didn’t know. What had she expected, really? She’d expected it to be like cleaning grout or something equally unpleasant. She’d expected to be annoyed with every word that came out of his smug mouth, bored at best. She’d expected anything but this.

She was proud and stubborn, but not so hard that she could cling to a grudge for years over the principle of the matter. Especially not knowing what she knew now: that there was such aching sweetness to him under the gruff demeanor and indiscriminate cursing; that he did things like read stories for his brothers and guess her mood from across the parking lot, from across the entire city, with only her words to guide him. That he wanted to know her, and she wanted to know him.

The accordionist segued smoothly into _O Come O Come Emmanuel_ and with the rise of melody she felt an echo in her chest, swooping and coiling, some winged thing hungry for the sky.   _You like him,_ she admitted to herself, and it wasn’t as awful as she expected. But the second admission terrified her: _It could be more._

When the Metra shuddered to a stop, she weaved through the aisle and out into the station, but not before dropping a ten dollar bill into the accordionist’s hat. 

~

That morning, the office was abuzz. Petra had arrived even earlier than usual and arranged a little bin in the back for gifts, and it set the tone for the day. She watched a stream of her coworkers chattering excitedly as they slipped their gifts into the bin, some of them making a great show of secrecy. She caught a brief glimpse of Auruo’s secret present; a simple rectangle wrapped in brown paper. He staunchly avoided her gaze, though she saw the tips of his ears had gone slightly red.

Mr. Baker decreed to the office at large that they would spend the morning being as productive as possible before the distribution of gifts and their Christmas party in the afternoon, but it was a futile effort; no one could concentrate longer than it took to wish each other happy holidays or hum a few bars of the most obnoxious Christmas song heard in the last twenty-four hours. For her part, she propped her head in one hand and glanced at the bin every few moments, feeling an anxious tautness curl in the pit of her stomach. It had been a terrible idea. He would hate it. His brows would furrow and his lips would purse, and his disappointment would be nearly palpable. He’d wonder why she hadn’t gotten him a real present, she just knew it.

She thought she could count on the dingy clock as an ally today, for on any other day it would mark the time passing with glacial slowness, but instead the morning disappeared in a whirlwind of conversation, and before she knew it Mr. Baker was trying to catch her eye, jabbing his finger impatiently at the bin.

It was a miserable exercise in performance. She wheeled the bin through the cubicles and set each secret gift on its recipients’ desk or in their hands, smiling and wishing them a Merry Christmas, even though the entire time her stomach was a tangled mess of anticipation and anxiety, and her heart beat somewhere in the back of her throat.

She was not brave. She waited until Auruo was on the phone before carefully placing the wrapped box on his desk; had he not been, she knew he would have opened it immediately, and she’d have to be there for the full brunt of his inevitable disappointment. She couldn’t bear that.

So too did she avoid the little brown rectangle that Auruo had placed in the bin. It was cheating. She only remembered it because she was so aware of him, and even more embarrassingly, she was a little jealous of whoever the recipient was. But the bin grew more and more empty, and still she hadn’t come to a gift with her name on it. Not until –

Her breath caught. The little brown present lay at the bottom of the bin. She lifted it and flipped it over; there, plain as day, was her name scrawled in his familiar, messy, wonderful handwriting. _What are the odds?_

At the back of the room, the party was already getting under way; her coworkers donned Santa hats and poured each other drinks, blasting even more Christmas music at an inappropriate volume, but Petra could barely hear them. She wandered back to her desk, skimming the edge of the wrapping with her thumb. She hadn’t pegged Auruo as someone who knew how to wrap gifts properly – this was almost better than hers.

Fingers trembling, she carefully pulled the paper away. Her heart thrilled. In her hands were two books: the first a brand new copy of _The Breakout Novelist_ and the second, _Anne of Avonlea_ , its cover lovingly worn.

She bit her lip but it was too late; the smile nearly split her face in two. That horrible, wonderful man! In a flash of clarity, she realized he’d had his own agenda and it had been the same as hers; his unsubtle questions about her writing were circling an idea, a gift she might like – something that would help. And as for the second book …

She saw him lurking at the periphery, trying to swallow his own smile as he made his way to her desk. Someone had given him a hat, which he wore at a jaunty angle, messy waves of hair sticking out of the brim, and in that moment she completely, utterly adored him. “So … Merry Christmas.”

“Auruo, they’re perfect. Thank you.”

“Ha? I mean, yeah – of course they are.”

“Don’t push it,” she tried to say with the appropriate censure, but his pleasure in her happiness and his cleverness made something light and warm settle in her chest. “Aren’t you going to open yours?”

“Well … I thought I’d just open it at home. You know. Save a mess, or whatever. These things are always kinda dumb – last year someone gave me a shower radio.”

“Don’t you dare!” she blurted before she could stop herself. Open at home?! She’d never know what he thought of it then!

“Geez!” he said, laughing. “Don’t have a fit.”

“I’ll show you a fit. Everyone else is opening theirs now!”

He glanced up, eying her suspiciously. "Why's this such a big deal?"

"Just open it!" 

He settled the box on her desk with a smirk. “Fine, fine. Keep your hair on.”

He disassembled the wrapping in typical fashion, tearing the neat paper she’d spent a half hour perfecting with abandon. But she didn’t watch his hands or the box; she watched his face for the slightest change, the slightest advance warning that with her choices she had done well or wrong.

He glanced up, trying and failing not to grin. “Women’s shoes?”

“Open the box, dummy.”

Inside was an assortment that she had spent the entire night assembling with utmost care; a box of nicotine patches, a jar of carrot baby food, a new package of pens, two lovely picture frames that she’d guessed would fit the snapshots taped to his monitor, and …

He laughed aloud when his fingers brushed the little slate, a stick of chalk stuck neatly to its frame, and she felt some hard fist in her chest loosen, replaced by that rising heat. “You!”

“Yes, me.”

“I can’t believe this.”

Though he was pleased, she rushed to explain herself anyway; after a year of unfounded rivalry, she felt that she owed him only the truth, in any form it chose. “So … I got your name for the secret swap. I hated you for what you said, but I knew I had to get something nice for you anyway – because it’s Christmas and you don’t honor grudges on Christmas. But I didn’t know anything about you except that you were a jerk, so I tried to get to know you, and … I was so stubborn, but … “

“But you changed your mind,” he said around the most incredible smile she had ever seen in her life.

She huffed with great dignity and brushed past this, even though it warmed her heart to hear it. “Anyway, I had a bunch of ideas, but I couldn’t decide. I thought I’d just give them all. So ….so there you go.” She trailed off, shrugging nervously. “Merry Christmas.”

He brandished the slate at her, but his expression lacked true disapproval. “This some kinda warning?”

“Next time you say something ridiculous, I’ll have something on hand to chastise you with,” she said slyly.

“Chastise me! Unbelievable.”

“And I thought about getting you actual carrots, but that would have made the box smell, I think. Besides, baby food’s more disgusting. Makes more of an impression.”

“Damn Petra, you said it.” He shook his head, but his own smile had nearly taken over his face, brighter than any lights on their tree. His cheeks were pink. “Thank you.”

“Yours are better,” she said modestly. “But you’re welcome.”

“Yeah … look, I gotta …” He rubbed the back of his neck anxiously, looking away. “Look, I gotta come clean. I traded around for your name. For the swap.”

She blinked. “You didn’t.”

“Yeah. I figured … well, fuck. I’d said that carrots shit, and you hated my guts, and I just – well, I wanted to try and make it up to you, ‘cept I’m not great at saying the right thing. As you saw. Heh. So I thought, you know … having a reason to get you something would be better. Harder to fuck up doing the right thing than saying the right thing.”

“I think most people feel the opposite,” she said, and her voice seemed to come from across a great distance. Here it was; proof of something she’d been too proud to consider, in case it wasn’t true. Her own cheeks flushed with heat, and her heart gave a thrilled, unsteady lurch. She studied his lovely features, hazel eyes bright with something she felt too, something mutual and heady, an increasing sound on the distance. She decided many things without consciously deciding; instead, it was like a mechanism locking into place, or a weight settled after fruitless struggle against its heft. She stood and reached for her coat, and slipped the two books in her purse. “Do you want to duck out?”

He stared as if he had never seen her before. “What?”

“Duck out. And – and get some dinner?”

Her pulse shuddered. She could only hear the sound of her own heartbeat roaring in her ears, thudding in her neck. She could have misread, misjudged; he could say no just as easily as yes and this lovely moment would be crushed into one of shame, but after what seemed like many years he smiled again and she knew that whatever this was, they felt it the same.

“A-alright … let’s get out of here.”

He jogged back to his desk and snagged his coat off the back of his chair. Bundled and adorned with each other’s slow care, they slipped out of the stuffy office, into the elevator and down, down … Before the doors opened, she took his hand and laced her fingers together with his. And she knew this, above all else; before the doors opened, he squeezed them gently back.

 


	30. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> petruo week day 3: rain

They’ve trained for this.

Rain lashes her face, stinging like a slap, but Petra doesn’t lower her head to ease the brunt of the onslaught. She is taut in the saddle, her blades drawn, leaning forward as her horse gathers speed. Erd and Gunter ride behind, Auruo charging at her left. In the darkened trees ahead, massive shadows loom.

“Engage!” comes the order from ahead, nearly swallowed by the wind. And the Special Operations Squad obeys; as if they are four limbs of one body, they rise from their saddles and grapple into the trees, rain audibly spattering their drawn blades.

They soar through the darkened forest, flanking the massive form of a Titan, its mouth stretched wide in a cruel, mindless grin. But she is no greenhorn, shivering in piss and fear; she has nearly sixty confirmed kills under her belt, most of them done at her squad’s side. She can handle herself better than most.

There is screaming from deeper within the forest, and a chill breaks out on the back of her soaking neck. The Titan snatches at air, fingers taut with intent; reaches dumbly for her. And had she been a new recruit she would have met her end in that massive creature’s fist, broken apart against the ground, a smear of dirt and blood. Instead, she grapples the tree behind its head, dodging with a quick lateral burst of gas.

She sees a flash of Auruo’s cloak whipping around as he reverses, grappling hard, and he pivots with blades drawn high, hurtling to the pinpoint target at the back of the Titan’s neck. There’s a look of mad rage twisting his features into something she almost doesn’t recognize, and she knows the cause; it reached for her. It could have killed her.

This is Auruo on the field, in front of a Titan; this is the man she loves, deadly as cut steel.

She falls quickly into the role of support; cutting a clean swath through one Achilles tendon and watching with satisfaction as it teeters precariously on ruined legs. She is smooth and assured, confident her blades will strike true, triumphant when they do.

But for a single moment, she is not paying attention to her back.

 ** _“Petra!!”_** Auruo screams, horror rendering beloved features strange. In that heartstop, shivering second, many things happen at once; she dodges the wild reach of a six-meter she hadn’t seen, grappling to the center of formation. Auruo attempts the same, but the moment he’d wasted to warn her is his undoing; the fourteen meter catches his gear, catches him in its splayed palm, and slams him to the ground.

There’s a high pitched shrieking in her ears. She can’t process what she’s seen, these grotesque bursts of sensory input. The rain in her face, water in her eyes, soaked cloth sticking to her shoulders and back; the sound of Erd and Gunter quickly dispatching the Titan, finishing what they’d begun. The stillness under its palm.

She launches at the last target with a caught howl in the back of her throat, falling into sync with Gunter; he veers right, she darts left – when the Titan tracks his movements, she launches, tightly wound, toward its unguarded neck, and the cut shivers up her arms.

She’s hardly landed at its corpse before darting back to the fourteen-meter. Its palm is flat to the ground, unmoving; she strains for any sound that might reassure, but there’s only the rain lashing wide leaves, plinking against her blades. Her heart thuds wildly in her throat as she stumbles to its side, but she knows what she’ll find – a smear where once was her comrade, her lover and friend. Because of her, because she was careless and stupid, because –

“Shit!” she hears, muffled from under Titan flesh. “Fuckin’ – _fuck!”_

And she nearly laughs, though it’s caught on a sob. If he’s well enough to curse with such blistering intensity, he’s fine. He’ll be fine. She sheathes her blades and shoves aside the steaming hand, bunching her cloak in her fists so the flesh won’t burn her palms. And there he is, sprawled in the mud, filthy and shivering, shards of broken steel beneath him. But alive.

“You _idiot_ ,” she says, and she reaches down to help him to his feet.

He takes her hand. “You’re the fuckin’ idiot! Do you watch where you’re going?”

“I was watching out for _you_.”

“Fuck, Petra! I can handle myself! Better than you, apparently.”

“There’s no apparently about it, stupid; you’re the one who almost died just now!”

“Bullshit. You’d’ve – you’d’ve been a fuckin’ smear on the ground if I hadn’t said anything.”

Now that the danger has passed, they carry on, sniping back and forth as they stand ankle deep in the mud that broke his fall. But even as they argue, their hands remain clasped fast. It’s only when Erd clears his throat that they remember to let go.

 

~

 

The rain worsens as they pass beneath Trost’s gate, and by the time they return to headquarters it’s become a deluge of mythical proportions. Soaked and miserable, the Special Operations Squad see to their horses before they trudge inside, stripping their filthy uniforms. They bathe in silence, three men on one side of the partition, Petra on the other, alone and shivering under the lukewarm stream of water.

She lifts her shaking hands to her cheeks, watching the dirty water slowly run clean. It is surreal to consider that on the other side there could have been only two men, silent not from thought but from grief. Auruo would be wrapped in canvas and carried back on the corpse cart, before his body would be burned. They would give his ashes to his family, along with the rest of his belongings.

A shudder ripples up her back. She bites savagely at her lip, wincing as the taste of blood bursts across her tongue. It could have happened today, so easily.

Clean and dry, they wander off to their respective rooms, but she doesn’t fall asleep; she waits until the night bell, until she is reasonably certain that she can creep down the hall to Auruo’s quarters without being seen. She’s about to when her door creaks open, and a shadow slips inside.

They do not speak, not at first; she half rises to meet him, but he’s crossed the room by then, climbing quickly into her bed. She touches him greedily, desperately; hands skimming up his chest, cupping his face, tracing those implacable scowl lines with shaking fingers. They kiss, and it’s as hungry as earth; shivering with the need they subvert when beyond the Walls.

“I thought you were –“ she whispers, her voice catching. 

“Petra …”

“I thought I’d see you all – all broken and bloody and – Auruo, I thought –“

“Shh …” She sees a flash of his smile, but it’s lost the blustery edge. “It’ll take more than that to do me in.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and she swipes at them angrily. “I wasn’t paying attention, and you could’ve –“

“Look,” he says quietly, his expression serious. “I said I’d have your back, okay? I made a promise to you that I’d do that … I fuckin’ cut my hand open and everything. And I meant it. And … and you have mine, and that’s just the way it is. So …” He shrugs, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “So that’s just the way it is.”

She’s quiet, wrestling with her unease; as an eleven year old girl she’d never considered that someday this promise would put him in danger. She’d only wanted him to know that she’d stick with him for the rest of her life. “Auruo, god. I thought—I’m not going to let you do something that’s going to get you killed in the name of some little thing we did when we’re kids. If something like that happens again, you –“

“I’ll do what I did, and I’ll do it again. I’ll do it every time.” His brows furrow. “No way, nag. You’re not – geez, you think I’m dumb enough to tell you ‘oh next time I’m in a jam just let it happen ‘cause I don’t want you getting hurt’? It’s true, and I think it every fuckin’ time you do something reckless and dangerous looking out for me, but I won’t ask you to stop ‘cause you’d – yeah! You’d give me that look you’re giving me right now. And you’d never do it, no matter how bad I begged. So don’t ask me to do that shit, ‘cause I won’t. It’s never gonna happen.”

With delicate slowness, he kisses her neck, his lips lingering on a slow exhale. “And it wasn’t just some little thing, Petra. It isn’t.”

She’s silent for a moment too long. Outside rain lashes her window, and a rumble of thunder echoes in the distance; the storm has followed them. “I thought … I thought you were dead, Auruo. I thought I’d pull that hand back and you’d be there, but … broken and gone. I wouldn’t hear your voice or feel your hands or get annoyed when you pretend to be something you’re not. And I … I can’t bear it.” Her voice breaks. “Just – please tell me you’ll –“

She sees his conflict in the wrinkle between his brows. He’s solid and realistic, edging closer to pessimism every day; he won’t want to tell her something he can’t promise, especially something he can’t believe. But pain and tenderness mix in his eyes; he holds her closely, and his hands tremble. “Alright,” he whispers.

She kisses him and he responds in kind; always quick to meet her need, as if he swallows his own for her sake. His hands thread in her hair and she arches, lips parted, against the solid lines of him, melting, drowning. She kisses him until she forgets the fear that took hold of her heart, squeezing in a tight fist; until she forgets that they are soldiers, and never in their lives will they have the privilege of being careless.

~

And it’s raw with feeling, desperate and honest. Every other day they are quiet, stifling their moans with pillows and hands, but over the downpour lashing the windows he does not swallow the stream of breathless French that increases as he does, each word pressed to her cheek. They move together, moan and gasp, and when she comes with hands fisted in his hair, he not far behind.

But he doesn’t pull away when they are spent; instead he remains buried deep, hips twitching one last time before going still.  When she shifts beneath him he clings to her, burying his face against her neck.

“Why do you do that?” she whispers breathlessly.

“Hmm?”

“Stay inside.”

He’s quiet, brushing aside a strand of hair that’s curled against her damp brow. “I’m a part of you,” he breathes at last. “This way, I’m a part of you.”

It’s something he would never dare admit anywhere but here, with all their walls set aside, bare as day. She takes his dear face between her hands so that he’ll know the promise when he hears it. “You’re always a part of me.”

 

 


	31. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> petruo week day 5: home

In the middle of the living room was a pile of boxes.

They’d been there all morning, stepped over and tripped upon, nudged aside for more pressing affairs. And currently, there were many; Petra perched in front of their new wardrobe and stored endless shirts and trousers and dresses, and Auruo knelt in the hot mud outside, waging war with a loose fence panel. 

He was not made for fixing things. He’d eked a relatively successful life out of destruction, each excursion reduced to the shiver of a cut as it traveled up his arms before he sped away, leaving the steaming corpse where it fell. But that life was behind him. Fixing things required a different set of skills altogether, and, Auruo thought peevishly, probably a different set of hands. He fumbled with the hammer and nails, his teeth gritting when his blow glanced to the side, bending the nail irrevocably.

Normally, his ineptitude would ruin his mood for the entire day, but not even utter failure at his duty as a man and husband could tarnish the swell of peace making a home in his chest. This was no sad obligation; he knelt in the hot mud outside of his house, where he’d come with his wife. He whistled between his teeth before lapsing into song, and his voice carried across the undulating field.

Petra heard him from inside. Lovely strains of melody in his familiar voice, soft as a whisper at first until it grew, until the only sound in the world was Auruo singing in French, the old songs she knew from the time they’d been children, listening to his mother sing as she cooked and worked.

She knew she should finish unpacking their clothes and arranging their bedroom, but the call of his voice proved too strong for her to resist; gathering her skirts in her hands, she descended the stairs and proceeded to stumble over the boxes in the middle of the living room. A bead of blood dripped from her smarting shin, but she pushed outside anyway.

She was eager to see proof of his happiness, as if by willpower alone she could see the figments of melody made real by want, curling around his head and into the world like smoke.

At first, she didn’t speak. She remembered what would happen when she had before; he would turn and blush and grouch at her for sneaking up on him. For some unknown reason, it deeply embarrassed him when people listened to him sing, even more so when they were outwardly appreciative. And she didn’t want that, not yet; she wanted to watch him battle their fence and listen to his beautiful, familiar voice shape the song.

 _Sur le Pont d'Avignon_  
_L'on y danse, l'on y danse_  
_Sur le Pont d'Avignon_  
_L'on y danse tous en rond_

Purple stained the horizon. A slight breeze gusted through the maple in their front yard, rustling its leaves; percussion to his melody. She could see mountains in the distance, snowy-peaked and immovable, the solid bones of this insubstantial world. Carefully, she knelt beside Auruo and put her hand on his shoulder.

He might have jumped in another place, but here he only leaned into her hand. “Hey, babe.”

“Hey, jerk.”

“Come to watch me make a mess of this shit?”

“What better entertainment is there?” she said, smiling and scooting closer.

He swung mightily and missed the nail by a good inch, smashing his thumb. But instead of yelping and making a great show of his wound, he carried right on working. Already, he’d forgotten that it was supposed to hurt.

“Did you notice,” she asked him softly. “There aren’t any Walls in this place.”

“Just mountains and fields.”

“Yeah.”

“I keep expecting them to be there. I look up and brace myself, ‘cause that’s the way it is. You get real used to feeling like they’re coming at you, moving closer until everything is smaller and tighter and there’s less room to live. But I look up here and I can’t see the end of it. It keeps going on and on … if I wanted to, I could start running until I’d looped right around.”

“It might take you awhile.”

“Nah.”

She smiled distantly. “Maybe we could make a race out if it. Like before.”

He thought about it as he studied her face. She was so familiar, yet somehow new in this place; the freckles differently arranged, the amber of her eyes lighter, farseeing. He knew that if he slipped his hands beneath her blouse, her skin would be as smooth to touch as a newborn’s, and his would be too. Already the topography of her scars eluded him. The nights he’d kissed raised flesh from rib to hip, from collarbone to the exact center between her breasts shimmered in his memory like a flat land under heat.

“Maybe we could,” he said finally. “Maybe I’ll wipe the floor with you, nag.”

“It’s not quite that different here.”

She tugged on his arm and he followed, and that was familiar enough. Together, they lay beneath the maple tree, watching sunlight pour between the leaves, dappling drifting shadows on their legs. She curled against him and lay her head against his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close. Their breathing fell into sync; slow and measured, an old habit. But his chest was silent beneath her ear.

“Do you think they’ll find us?” she asked him after a long while. The shadows had shifted in nearly a perfect circle over her bare, unblemished shin. “Or will it be different for them?”

“Gunther will,” Auruo said. “Probably Erd too. Gunther’s place wouldn’t be right without us in it.”

“It wouldn’t be home,” she agreed softly, her voice nearly swallowed by the rising wind.  

He wondered about that. He’d closed his eyes in a red forest and awoken in a green field, like the ones from his childhood, the ones he shared with Petra. She’d been waiting for him under their tree, and when she caught sight of him on the horizon she ran to meet him halfway, tears streaking down her cheeks. You could cry here, he marveled as he wrapped her fiercely in his arms, burying sobs against her neck. That singular hurt remained.

“Thought I’d lost you,” he wept. “I thought it was over.”

“Not yet,” she told him.

They’d found the cottage by the river and beneath the mountains. He hadn’t trusted it, but she’d known that it was a gift from some benevolent watcher, a distant yet familiar presence, dear as memory of an embrace. It hadn’t taken long for her joy to convince him, and soon they wheeled through the spotless rooms like eager children. Everything smelled like fresh-cut pine and primroses. The shutters had already been painted yellow.

It was a house for a family, and it made him think of his. He saw his parents and his brothers as if through a fog. Francois on his mother’s hip, Etienne pulling at her skirt. Didier with his books and red eyes. Christophe with a magnificent shiner, squaring off with someone twice his size. Benoit with a bloody patch clasped tightly in his fist.

“They won’t come for a long time,” she said gently.

“Your dad, either.”

“So we’ll just have to make do ourselves until then.”

But in the silence, Auruo could nearly sense her reaching for her mother. An experienced denizen of this place. How would she react to seeing her daughter so young, barely twenty, the sweetest years of her live forever unlived. The same way he’d react to seeing Benoit stride across that field, his dark hair ruffling in the breeze. With joy and grief.

“Maybe her place doesn’t have me in it,” Petra whispered.

“Don’t be stupid. Bet you she’s already coming.”

In the distance, two figures slowly grew more distinct; one light, one dark. The dark one rubbed the back of his neck and ducked his head in a shy motion, and the light one squeezed his massive shoulder in a familiar gesture of support. Auruo could see them but Petra couldn’t; she studied the garden like the one she’d planted with her mother, down the exact arrangement of the flowers. She could almost remember the cold mud as she planted the seeds, her mother’s warm hand closing over hers.

They waited a long time. The shadows turned three complete circles before Auruo got to his feet. From this distance, he could finally discern features: a long, thin nose smack dab center in a long, thin face; a whorl of dark hair sticking out like a duck’s tail. With them they brought their comforts: Gunther’s ravens, Erd’s pinwheels.

He knew more would come soon. Unbidden, the song welled in his chest, rising to greet them.

 _Sur le Pont d'Avignon_  
_L'on y danse, l'on y danse_  
_Sur le Pont d'Avignon_  
_L'on y danse tous en rond_

“What does it mean?” Petra asked him as she stood, wiping her eyes.

He pushed aside an errant strand of hair, tucking it gently behind her ear before pressing his lips to her brow. “It’s about a bridge to a better place.”

~

In the far distance, another crossed the expanse. Her long, bright auburn braid bounced between her shoulders, and she caught her slightly overlarge lip between her teeth against the eager, bittersweet smile. Only her eyes were different, green as the purest earth. In these endless days, she’d built a cottage and planted a tree like the one her daughter favored in the world below, the stage for races and daydreams, curiosity and yearning. She’d watched Petra laugh and cry and love, and longing beyond anything she’d known in life took hold of her heart. Her vigil was both eager and poignant, the curse of those who come before. Finally, she’d watched the streak of starlight burn across the sky, golds and ambers and reds like a cascade of showering flame, and she’d known.

So she left her rocky perch and crossed the field to her daughter and the people she loved. As she’d been welcomed all those years ago, now she went to welcome them to the place she’d made.  


	32. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> petruo week day 6: touch

You want me to lay it out?

Right, so … it ain’t that hard when she isn’t a piece of shit. I’m serious! You, looking at me like you can’t believe it. Well, I’m telling you – even for someone like me, it ain’t that hard. It ain’t hard getting all tangled up over her and all the shit she does, especially not after she spends years yanking you around by the sleeve, following her dust-trail. Keep up or get left in the dirt. Your choice.  

She was always doing that shit when we were kids. Real touchy feely. Grabbing my hands, my arm, my face, my hair. One time we were hiding in her house during a storm, huddled in their front room (which is as big as a damn cathedral. All that space for two people! Fuckin’ waste) and there’s this crack of lightning so loud it shook the house, and she grabs my knee hard enough that she might’ve splintered my kneecap if she held on much longer. Says ‘what?!’ all embarrassed.

Oh yeah, this whole ‘cute piece of shit’ thing ain’t new.

So she’s a touchy kinda person. Grabby _and_ irritable, heh.  Don’t tell her I said that. Mostly she’s irritable when it comes to me, so maybe it doesn’t count.

What else …

She’s been grabbing my hand since the day we met. I guess for a normal person that isn’t much of anything – it’s what you’d expect, so there’s no use letting it get all big in your head, all important. But before Petra, the only time people were grabbing me was during a scrap. Some piece of shit says something shitty and I smack ‘em one. Pretty simple. And then along comes this little ginger brat and she’s got some big issue with people kicking the shit out of me. Decides she won’t stand for it. Decides I’m not such bad company after all, and from then on it’s like how I said – keep up if you wanna keep her.

You know, even as a kid she had these small, rough hands, ‘cause she was always getting into shit. Climbing trees, working around her giant house, making bread with her dad. (Now he’s a piece of shit if I ever knew one, but no one makes better bread than him. I’m telling you right now). Always running, tripping and scraping her palms, getting back up. That’s Petra. ‘f course now, she’s got calluses from the 3DMG over all that shit.

It’s better that it’s not some soft shit, though.

Anyway, I was saying … for a normal person all this shit wouldn’t’ve been such a big deal. What does it matter, really? If it’s something you get every day, or got from the time you were just a brat. If you had a pile of friends always clapping your back or kicking at your feet or whatever else. But it’s different when you don’t got a precedent. And it’s different ‘cause it’s her.

Here’s what I mean: We’re about to sign up for the military. Enlistment’s in just a few weeks, and I’m being a real nervous asshole about it. Real piece of shit. Snappy, impatient. I’m getting real melodramatic garbage every night ‘bout how I’m gonna just die my first time outside the Walls, and it’s driving me nuts. It’s so bad one night that the next day I’m a real miserable asshole to be around. I mean, worse than usual. Anyway, after a whole morning of my snappy bullshit, she just … loops her arm with mine and puts her head on my shoulder, and we just sit like that for a good long while, not talking. Just touching. And even being tangled up in knots, it’s nice. It’s one of those things you remember because of how everything felt – like the look of a warehouse will make me think about it, since that’s where we were hiding. Or anytime I smell bread and flowers, I’ll think about it – since that’s what her hair always smelled like. You get a whole messy pile of things you’ll think about like that. She comes back from the kitchen smelling like yeast and flour and I’ll remember that day like it’s only just happened.

There was the time I cut up my side on the field and she held the gash shut until they found the stitchers. All this blood seeping around her fingers, and she’s all pale and freaked out, but she’s giving me hell about it. ‘You idiot, watch where you’re goin’, stop trying to be some big hero,’ on and on and on, even though her hands were shaking. You think you love a person, and the bottom drops out and you find a whole new room of it, a whole new dimension. It’s not all sighs and caresses. It gets messy and angry. And it’s not like I’m in danger of forgetting this, but I remember: she’s the kind of person that’ll hold you together and give you rotten hell for being stupid, for scaring her.

She’s got the best hands. Here’s what I mean: we went to Sina for some bullshit or another a few months ago, so there’s all these fancy rich people wandering around. Real rich ladies, all plump from having good food all the time, dressed in these fancy clothes. And their hands, like you’d expect from someone who never had to work a day in their life; all soft and smooth and white. But it makes Petra real self-conscious, ‘cause her hands are rough and callused and dirty, and she’s got no nail on her left thumb or forefinger ‘cause the 41st.

Sometimes this stuff bugs her. She’ll forget about it most of the time ‘cause we got enough shit to worry about, and in the scheme of things having soft hands isn’t as important as, y’know, not getting your ass killed on the field. But sometimes. I mean these little things, they’ll pick at you. I got my own; who doesn’t? But anyway, those rich ladies look at her like they look at anyone not like ‘em – kinda down their nose, like _you’re_ less because you have less. So Petra spends almost the whole trip hiding her hands behind her back or in her skirt or whatever, and I just – it wasn’t right, y’know? So I tell her she should be proud of that shit – her rough hands. They’re _tough_. She can take care of herself. She works her ass off for the Survey Corps and everyone in it, and everyone else. Everyone in the world. She should shove her hands under those rich ladies’ noses and tell ‘em ‘look – look at how hard I work for you. Look at what I go through so you can eat your rich food and wear your rich clothes and hoard your shit.’

She doesn’t say anything for a long while, but finally she just touches my face. Real light, almost too light to feel, but warm too. Rough palms and raggedy fingernails and all. She touches you like that and you feel like you’re worth more than all the money in the world, and all the rich food and clothes. You cheer her up and you are. So you can live in that moment; her hands on your face. Your piece of shit old man face.

What else do you want me to say? Yeah, it’s good. It’s better than anything.


	33. levihan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> levihan week day 1: beauty

it doesn’t make sense. 

her sleeves are rolled to the elbow, the white edged with gore. her shirt is hopelessly wrinkled. she’s shoved her blood-spattered goggles up her brow into a nest of filthy, dark hair, tangled almost beyond hope. her arms are slick with blood and viscera; she inadvertently smears some across her cheek when gesturing to moblit and somehow manages not to notice the streak of steaming blood over the bridge of her nose. 

it’s disgusting. it should turn his stomach. 

she stuck her arms too far in this time. she’s always getting carried away, ridiculously enthusiastic over physiology different enough to fascinate. there’s only so many times he can supervise another futile trip through a titan’s guts, but she never seems to tire of it. there is no end to what she can learn from those piles of bones and steaming flesh. 

as he watches in fascination and mild disgust, she tugs her goggles back down and plunges her hands into another sample, rooting around like a scavenger intent on a meal. he makes himself stare, pursuing annoyance and nausea – things that he should feel at such a sight. but he is as fascinated with her as she is with her studies. 

it’s her eyes. those damnable eyes – lit with enthusiasm and hunger. it’s her lips pulled in an eager grin. her thin, jumpy hands, currently peeling porous flesh away from the musculature of her subject. the angle of her neck, that somehow manages to be graceful as she cranes closer, brows pulled high, observing. that gearcrank, whipfast mind beneath the pile of filthy hair; insatiable, prodding every angle for weakness, for understanding. the entire affair is disgusting, yet despite the filth and gore and bracing stench of decomposing matter, he can’t help but to find her utterly, heartbreakingly beautiful. 

“levi?” she blinks at him. “what’s wrong?”

“what?” 

“you look concussed.” 

he doesn’t look away, even though the observation embarrasses him. he must be concussed to stare at her like such an idiot. “i’m fine, shitty-glasses.” 

“you sure? you’re not going to throw up on my work?”   


“gross,” he mutters. “hurry up.”   


she shrugs and turns back to her work, but not before flashing him a bright, unselfconscious smile, and he can’t help but to find that beautiful too. 


	34. levihan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> levihan week day 3: wings

It’s just a patch. 

This is a fact: they’re embroidered by slum children and other unfortunates who possess small, clever hands in a factory behind Wall Sina. It’s one of the most coveted trades in society, despite the treacherous looms and cotton-thick air, for the lure of a steady paycheck cannot be overstated.

Wingtips splay skyward; one blue, one white. (Another fact: the aniline necessary for indigo dye is synthesized from dryer’s knotweed, a plant cultivated with great care in the southern reaches of Walled Territory). Hange notches her glasses up the bridge of her nose and cranes closer, though a few inches won’t make a difference; from this distance, she can barely make out Levi’s drawn features, the gently familiar furrow between his fine brows, dark circles like bruises smudged beneath those eyes. But there is a strange magnetism, regardless; an unconnected need to be as close as possible, as one is drawn to light or heat. 

“Pay attention this time,” Levi tells his squad. Fact: they’d been paying attention last time, and the times before that. Levi’s style of teaching does not complement his prodigious ability well; she theorizes it’s due to the fact that he never had to struggle against lack of aptitude, or with a body made solely for walking and running. He just knew, innately, what to do with his weight, his legs, the proper application of posture and form. 

He draws his blades. The edge of his cloak ripples, wingtips shuddering; a bird testing itself before the plunge. When he finally does leap from the platform, it’s with such savage immediacy that both Hange and Levi Squad flinch in their places. Even waiting for it, even knowing full well what Levi can do, it still rattles your nerves.

This is a fact: Levi is made for motion. Silver flashes bright with black, each pivot as visceral and deadly as the dance of an adder. It is too fast to see the motion of his cable, or which broadside targets he chooses to grapple; he’s gone before it registers. He moves so quickly that the winged patch on his back blurs, until she almost believes that those wings are real, responsible for his deadly haste. 

He moves too quickly to analyze, to know what he’s thinking, how he sees the field. She’s always wondered at how the world is through Levi’s eyes. Is it a stark place? Grim and devoid of color? Not always, though; not when they are alone, not when his touch shivers slow and steady over her bare skin – this battle-bound man rendered real by his own uncertainty, how badly he wants coupled with how little he knows of soft things. He is Levi, deadly as the two swords in his hands, and Levi, slow in love. She knows him best when he is in flight, either form.

He lands perfectly and sheathes his blades in a single, efficient motion. “Do you see now?” he asks his squad. They nod their heads in the manner of concussion victims, because what else can you do in the face of such mastery? 

But when that sharp, dark gaze flashes over to her, she doesn’t nod. She grins hugely, waving with just enough enthusiasm to embarrass him. And this is a fact: he doesn’t snarl or sulk or grimace at her attention. For just a moment, in the open daylight of the training enclosure, he looks pleased to have discovered her watching.


	35. levihan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> day 5 for levihan week: blue

What remains of the Survey Corps reach the ocean that afternoon. Gray clouds crowd the horizon, veiling the sun, and flecks of snow drift lazily onto their stooped shoulders. Levi has a few caught in his eyelashes. It would make any other man seem young, but here it only illuminates his worn features; tired eyes, tired hands, a slash of a mouth that is always curved down. 

Some drop to their knees. Some weep. Moblit stares at the churning, blue expanse before huddling on the snowy sand and balancing his sketchbook across his knees. “Just a moment, Commander,” he mumbles absently. “Let me …” 

She leaves him, drifting toward the water.

As a child, she’d stolen a ratty book from the gutters, its pages soggy with garbage. The text had been too simple for her insatiable curiosity, but the illustrations had captured her imagination for months. There, on its middle pages, was a picture of the ocean as it had been in the world before; sunny beaches and a cornflower blue sky above perfectly navy waters, stretching on farther than one could ever hope to see. People reclined on golden shores, shading their eyes against the sun. Boats drifted on the horizon, and their white sails snapped in an invisible breeze. A small child tossed a brightly colored ball.

For years, she had thought determinedly of that ocean, though it was impossible to verify as anything more than a charmingly illustrated fancy. She comforted herself with it. Somewhere, beyond the Walls, was a place large and warm and bright enough to sprawl in the sand without worrying that a set of massive jaws will find you. She’d fantasized about the feel of hot sand on her bare feet, about slipping into those sunlight waters, which would be warm as a bath. 

But these waters are cold. This is not a child’s blue; it’s the grayish blue of a drowned man’s skin. She sticks her hand in the gray surf and does not flinch away even though it cuts to her bones. 

“Come on, Hange,” says Levi at her shoulder. She hadn’t noticed him behind her. 

She looks at him blankly. She doesn’t recognize this concern, nor can she remember the last time he called to her without attaching some irritated epithet to the request. Only when he takes her freezing hands between his does she move away from the shore. 

They sit for a long time, listening to their comrades laugh and cry and kick at the surf, splashing each other with freezing water. He doesn’t touch her again, and she doesn’t expect it; they are too old for blatant affection, too tired. Their early days were marked by awkward passion, but in its place a quiet understanding grows between them. She doesn’t have to say anything; he will know regardless, and he’ll know it like one knows their heartbeat. He’d known just looking at the back of her head, felt it brewing like the storm above. 

“We better start mapping the shore,” she says as she rubs her jaw. 

He crosses his arms atop his knees, staring out at the water. There’s sand caught in his stubble. “Yeah.” 

“But, you know …” 

“Hm?” 

She smiles at him. “I wonder what’s on the other side.”


	36. eruri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eruri + things you said while i was crying

despite his best and most constant efforts, the room stinks of rot and blood. supposedly the healers are changing erwin’s bandages every six hours, but the severity of the wound soaks them through in less than half that time; levi had only stepped out for a minute, but when he returns the reek is so strong that it curls around his throat like a phantom fist, making him gag.

for a moment, he’s not in erwin’s quarters but in the sawbone’s den back in the underground, eyeing a box of bloody parts that nearly overflows, hands curling toward the dingy ceiling. it smelled of rotted blood there, too – a nearly ever-present miasma that marinated in weakening lungs, soaked through clothes, so that no matter how fervently you washed, the stench would remain long after you’d gone.

“levi?” comes a whisper from across the room. erwin is awake, or as awake as he can be, considering. 

“it’s me,” levi assures him. “lie back” 

but erwin thrashes weakly in the damp sheets, sodden linen slipping away from the stump, dark yellow and red. his teeth grit. the healers are nowhere to be found. he will have to change the bandages himself.

he tucks a fresh roll of linen under his arm and wedges a bowl of fresh water against his hip before crossing the room and settling at erwin’s side, careful not to spill a drop. only a few days have passed since they returned from their last excursion, but erwin seems diminished already, wasted by fever and delirium. his chest hitches on shallow breaths, and a fine sheen of sweat covers his face, which is an alarming greenish shade. levi almost can’t reconcile this wretched creature with the commander that thinks of everything, that leads them into hopeless battles with his back straight and arm raised high, blade glinting in the sunlight.

“levi?” 

“lie back,” he says again. “don’t be stubborn.”

as if that’s the case. erwin probably can’t even hear what he’s saying. gritting his teeth, he unravels the sodden bandage and tosses it aside before he begins work cleaning the wound, but the stench is so overpowering that he gags again, biting the edge of his cheek to keep from vomiting. it’s different this time, but the same – it’s too much the same. damp sheets and darkness, the smell of sickness heavy in the quiet. 

“will you hold still, dammit?” he mutters, and to his horror his voice is trembling. 

but erwin can’t seem to hear him; he stares straight ahead, his eyes pitted wide. when levi dabs at his face with a dry cloth, his brow is hot as a stretch of cobblestones at midday, in the dead of summer. tears track down his cheeks, burning by the time they pool at his neck. “i’m sorry,” he gasps. “i’m s-sorry. it’s my fault, it’s my fault …” 

everything is erwin’s fault. that’s the nature of command, and most days you wouldn’t even know this weighed on his soul, for he gave his orders in the surest voice, smooth as glass, powerful as a cannon. you could almost believe doubt only lagged on his heels, snatching at his cloak but never touching, never connecting. levi had believed that, at first. before this mess. 

“shut up,” he says, tying off the fresh bandage. “you’re going to rip out your stitches.” 

but it’s like having a conversation with a ghost, someone with one foot in the otherworld, hesitating on the threshold. erwin gulps half-breaths, chest heaving under the sheets.“forgive me.” 

he could just as easily be begging for his ghosts’ forgiveness as he is levi’s, the chorus of ghosts he’s responsible for, the ones that haunt this dank, rotted room. how best to say that a soldier knows his duty, accepts his fate; that they go into hell knowing they probably won’t return? levi’s not one for these speeches; he can barely mutter acceptable condolences when returning his subordinates’ effects. he doesn’t even know that he believes it, or that it matters for them to believe. all that matters is that they continue, regardless. they must heal, and live. they must finish what they started or everything will be in vain. 

“shut up,” he says again, resting his hand on erwin’s brow (and it’s another cruel echo that nearly takes his breath away, for he remembers his mother’s burning brow, before the coldness took its place). yet he persists. though the words are harsh his voice is almost gentle, solid with promise. he is gentle as he can be with a killer’s hands


	37. erdgun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eldgun + things you said too quietly

they linger long after everyone else has left; gunther because he’s prone to lingering, and eld because he’s prone to shadowing gunther in his various quiet escapades. a sunny shadow, lurking in his larger friend’s shade. 

it’s cold and dark, a vicious slash of pink at the edge of the horizon, and an unseasonable chill descends over the landscape, yet gunther does not hike his cloak around his shoulders or shiver in the wind; he stands, tall and steady as a redwood, watching the sun slip away. eld wonders if he can even feel the ice-sharp air, or if to him everything is bleak and numb, a gray world. 

“c’mon,” he says uneasily. “if you stay out here much longer, you’re going to freeze solid.” 

gunther doesn’t respond, and too late eld remembers his disdaining discomfort with hyperbole. he tries again, pasting a sunny smile on his face. “you’ll miss the show if you don’t hurry up. frick and frack are at it again. i know, i know! i’m shocked. you might think that they don’t like each other at all, considering how they carry on.” 

gunther startles him with a reply, spoken quietly, with a hint of terse discomfort in his voice. “they argue because they can’t do what they wish they could.” 

it’s just like him to cut to the truth of the matter. eld lapses into mutual silence, standing at his comrade’s side, close enough that every now and then, a gust will push him into gunther’s shoulder, regardless of how firmly he plants his feet in the frozen earth. he can’t feel the cold now, either; just the pressure of the wind, an insistent hand at his back. he thinks of home, a bright spot of warmth some impossible distance away, one that would require an eternity of pursuit to reach once again. how could they understand? how could he put into words what he sees as a solider – crushed bodies, rictus grins. children on the pyre. he can hardly allow himself to think of it, let alone put it into words, or return to a place that can no longer bear him. 

“i know what that’s like,” eld says, but his words are swallowed by the wind, caught and captured before they can escape.


	38. levihan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> levihan + things you said when you were scared

they sit in darkness, knees brushing every few stunned heartbeats, waiting. her hands tremble. levi’s seen her cut a titan to the quick of its nape with hands steady as earth, seen her notate page after page of incomprehensible observations until the lamps ran low with never so much as a tremor. yet there’s something a little tender about it, he thinks distantly; a little endearing. sometimes he doesn’t think the world can touch her. sometimes he hopes. 

“levi,” she says softly. outside, the earth shudders. 

her shaking hands find his, fingers entwine., slick with blood. he begins to protest, but she silences him before he can speak: “it’s too late.”

“don’t.” 

another shudder, this one closer.

“don’t what? t-tell the truth?” it’s too dark to see her features in this ruined hovel, but he can nearly sense her rueful smile; brows slack, lips curved slightly, as if the gesture takes too much strength. her breath rattles wetly in the shivering silence, a gasp between clenched teeth. it’s too late, far too late. another shudder outside counts down the dwindling seconds, yet still he fights the realization – even though his gear is broken and his spine is shattered, and he can’t feel her clutching his knee. 

“levi, i …” now the words are wet with unshed sobs. “i-” 

“stop,” he pleads. his voice breaks, cracking ice over water. he’s never been able to shake the connection that love and goodbye are the same. even if it is true, even if the very truth of it sings through his ruined body, ignites a heart long silenced by life and loss. he can’t bear to say goodbye.

this time the advancing footsteps shake a few shingles loose, and bright streaks of sunlight pour down from the opening in the roof. one illuminates hange; bloodless and pale, her hair a matted nest of tangles, one hand clutching her red-spattered side. blood oozes sluggishly from between her fingers.

“i’m sorry,” he tells her around the thickness in his throat. and he can’t escape this now; love and goodbye are the same, he thinks desperately. love and regret are the same. if there is to be another life beyond this one, he’ll know it again. 

but somehow she smiles, even when the titan claws at the roof, sheering away ceramic shingles and chunks of rotted wood. dust covers them, frosting her gore-spattered goggles. she reaches for him again, even though it makes the wound bleed again; she captures his face between her bloodied hands and holds him steady, holds him fast. her lips are cold against his, chapped by their long flight in the cold, but this is the kiss he’ll keep – better than the dozens they stole in abandoned corridors, between sunlight-dappled sheets. this is their goodbye, and a promise.

“i’m not,” she breathes against his mouth.


	39. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> petruo + things you said when we were the happiest we ever were

Auruo woke three minutes before the alarm on his phone. Careful not to jostle the bed, he scrambled for it, swiping his thumb over the smooth glass face and turning it off before the cantina theme from _Star Wars_ could shatter the cozy silence. The last thing he wanted to do was wake Petra before it happened naturally.

He’d been too distracted last night to remember to turn the fucking thing off. It had been something out of a dream, the kind of trip addicts chase their whole lives; they’d spent hours at dinner just talking, just laughing with each other, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d done it somehow, convinced her he was normal and interesting and assured, though his palms sweat through his jeans and his heart kept lurching into his throat, choking off his typical dumbass chatter.

He was so fixated on her, so stuck on the miracle of her presence in his life, that details from the rest of the night blurred into the background, impossible to recollect. He couldn’t even remember what he’d eaten, or what restaurant they’d finally ducked into. It had a pub-y atmosphere, that much he knew; the tables had been sticky with old dishsoap and beer, and the background noise has a certain easy timbre to it, like a splash of color in a sea of cold monochrome.

He remembered the way she smiled. He remembered that she ordered a bleu cheeseburger, and ate it with particular verve. She’d gotten a smear of sauce on her chin; he remembered reaching carefully across the table and wiping it away with the flat of his thumb. She’d colored when he let his touch linger, briefly enough to lend the gesture some plausible deniability. And he remembered thinking that she had wanted him to linger more, for her brows furrowed, and her eyes grew unfocused, steadied over his lips before drifting back down to her plate.

Half an arm span away, Petra burrowed more deeply in the blankets. A few strands of bright auburn hair wafted from behind her ear before slipping down her shoulder, revealing more bare, freckled skin than he knew what to do with. He was caught suddenly by a terrible impulse; to press his lips to the shape of her shoulder blade, ascending as if by a ladder, tracing soft skin over bone.  

He’d kissed the hollow of her neck, balanced above her on his forearms; he’d buried his hands in her hair and tasted her pulse, quick against his mouth. He’d been inside her, shuddering and bare in every way a person can be, yet this small gesture was too much, too bold for such a new arrangement. She’d never been here before, and they’d never done this. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her off.

Come to that, there was always a chance what they’d done would scare her off anyway, with no added stupidity from him. It would probably make things worse if he was still in bed when she woke up; he figured that she would probably want some privacy to remember and express what was sure to be dismay without him breathing down her neck. Might as well make this easy for her.

Holding his breath, he slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of flannel pants. But it was too dark to find his shirt, and he didn’t want to dig around for a clean one in his closet, as the sliding door scraped and squealed every time he hauled it open, so he carefully nudged the bedroom door open and stepped out into the living room, pushing it shut behind him.

It didn’t take him long to settle on making breakfast; a mushroom and cheese omelet, like his mom made on weekends. He was thinking ahead already; a hot meal wasn’t likely to stall her if she was dead set on leaving, but it might convince her to stay if she was undecided. He wouldn’t blame her if she was; they’d essentially gone from bickering friends to lovers in the span of last night, on the edge of a single moment. But the longer she remained in his apartment, buried in his bed, the more he wanted to do for her; the impulse transformed from subtle to intent, nearly desperate. He’d cook, he’d clean this shitty dump; he’d even sing for her, if she wanted.

Outside, it snowed. Fat clumps of white drifted lazily down from cotton-spun clouds, grey and soft. Auruo craned toward the window just as a plow truck sped by, spattering the side of the street with dirty sludge. So much for the white; his lips twisted ruefully as he dug around the cupboard for a frying pan. He’d never admit this to anyone, but there was a romantic side to his otherwise irritated sensibility; he’d have liked for her to wake up to a world of perfect, unblemished white, something to justify the bitter cold. It seemed like something she’d get excited about.

He still felt vague and hungover from the taste of her mouth, the feel of her hands as they skimmed up his chest to cup his shoulders. It almost seemed to have happened to another person; a better person, one with a ready smile, one who didn’t grumble and swear and curse, blathering to fill silence he could barely stand.

On a normal day, he’d whip up breakfast in no time at all, as he wasn’t generally concerned with perfection – if it was sloppily done, he turned the omelet into a scramble and inhaled the messy contents of his plate before heading out. But this morning he wanted to impress Petra; he wanted to show her that he wasn’t a pathetic manchild who couldn’t feed himself or take care of his own apartment. It was vital, then, that he demonstrate his ability.

He chopped onions and mushrooms into perfect pieces and whipped a bowl of eggs and milk to the ideal consistency (‘milk to make ‘em fluffy’ his dad instructed, back when Auruo was first learning). Chewing distractedly on his lip, he dumped the mix into the pan and let it cook. Had he been alone, he’d have launched into song to pass the time, loud enough that his upstairs neighbor could hear (to his chagrin); as it was, he consoled himself with humming _‘Nesun Dorma’_ at a circumspect volume.

Just as he was about to flip the omelet, a pair of freezing hands slipped around his waist, holding him close; he gasped as the cold registered against his bare stomach, jerking badly enough that the lip of omelet broke away from the spatula, effectively ruining his effort. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Ah, shit.”

“Did I startle you?” came her voice from behind, muffled against his shoulder.

“N-nah. Just your hands are fuckin’ freezing, nag. What, you stick ‘em in a snowbank before now?”

“It’s cold without you,” she complained, but he heard the smile in her voice, and it made him warm. “Did I wake you up?”

He shivered when her lips brushed against his shoulder blade. “Waiting for my alarm did. Well, that and your godawaful snoring.”

“I don’t snore!”

“How would you know? You’re asleep when it happens.”

She pinched his hip. “Jerk.”

“You like it.”

“Hmph.”

Carefully, he dumped the scrambled contents onto a plate and turned, holding it out to her. He’d given himself a few moments to prepare, but the sight of her still took his breath away. She’d found his shirt and donned it in a hurry, going by the musing of her hair, but was much too big for her; the oversized neck hung askew, revealing one freckled shoulder. It was impossible to look at her and not remember the night before; her hair tangled from his hands, pinkish marks on her neck from his mouth. If he bothered to look in the mirror, he’d find a few scattered across his chest and neck too.

She blinked. “This is for me?”

“Well, yeah. Geez.” He scuffed the back of his undercut with one anxious hand. “You’re a guest and all.” More to the point, he wanted her to want to stay. He wanted her to feel so welcome that she’d stay the whole weekend. They’d pop down to the Walgreens three blocks away and get her a toothbrush, (while he picked up another box of condoms). They’d laze around and cook together or play Mario Kart on his ancient N64. They’d stretch out the feeling from that strange, impossible night between them, a heady air that only finds footing on the weekends, away from the cares of regular life.

She surprised him by looking surprised in a watery, tender sort of way. “Really?”

“Well, of course. Yeah. Why wouldn’t it?”

“You – made me breakfast?”

 _Christ._ Auruo’s ears grew hot, warmth creeping up the back of his neck. Apparently, she was going to insist on making a bigger deal out of a measly little breakfast than necessary. “You haven’t even tasted it yet,” he reminded her, hoping to blunt the intensity of her stare. “You don’t know if it’s any good or not.”

“It smells good,” she said, gingerly taking the plate. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Well, geez. I _am_ an adult, after all.”

Her lips curved. “Theoretically, anyway.”

“You’re gonna give me that after last night, huh?”

He froze. He hadn’t meant to bring it up so casually, like it was another little joke between them, like it hadn’t been everything. But he knew on some level that this was better than the alternative, far preferable to the truth. She wouldn’t like it, he knew; her lips would press together in a thin line, and her brows would wrinkle, and she’d fumble for something nice to say before she made her excuses and disappeared.

But to his incredible relief, she smiled even wider. “You bet.”

He figured she’d settle at the table, as manners dictated (he remembered her spreading a napkin over her lap even at the crummy, sticky pub), but to his surprise she beckoned him with one finger and slipped back into his bedroom. He followed, feeling vague; when he pushed back into the bedroom he saw her perched in his bed with the plate balanced across her legs.

“I won’t spill,” she promised as he settled himself beside her. “I’m very careful.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Said coolly. “You can just wash whatever you mess up.”

He’d meant it to be a joke, but she nodded seriously. “That’s fair.”

“Geez, nag. I was kidding around. I’m not gonna make you do my damn laundry.”

“It’s still fair.” She shoveled a huge clump of eggs onto her fork and took a bite, chewing with relish. “These are amazing, by the way.”

“Glad you approve.”

“I had no idea you could cook, you know!”

“Yeah, you said. Couple times, in fact.”

She lifted a hand to her mouth. “Sorry. I still have a mental image of you in that awful apartment you lived in when we were in college. Remember? I went poking around your pantry anytime I was over, and it was always practically empty. Like, half empty box of pasta, maybe a can of chili.”

“Yeah, well I was also nineteen years old. And an idiot.” _More of an idiot than he was now, anyway._

To his delight, she ate every bit of eggs, even scraping her fork edge-side down along the plate to pick up any scraps of cheese that were left behind. She offered him some, but he refused; he wasn’t really hungry, but more than that, he wanted her to enjoy something without thinking of anything or anyone else. Something warm kindled in the center of his chest as he watched her; something like need, but softer, more consuming. Without fanfare, she set the plate aside and curled up against him, nestling her head against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said, cupping his neck.

“Geez. It’s – it’s nothing.”

“You know it’s not even 7am, right? You dragged yourself out of bed on a freezing Saturday morning, which would be better spent under every blanket you own, by the way, just to make me breakfast. A surprisingly delicious breakfast, at that. If I hadn’t woken up first, would you have brought it to me in bed?”

 _Fuck._ That would have been a pretty good plan. He huffed, annoyed with himself. “Nah. Well – I mean, maybe. If you’d’ve wanted. Look, I was just – I wanted to get out of your hair. In case –“

She looked at him. “In case …?”

“I mean …” _Don’t make me say it._ He thought of the night before, how easily they had fallen together, after years of watching and needing and aching so badly that he thought it would ruin him, if it hadn’t already. And how quickly it had changed, from nothing more than a simple, errant touch. He could spill his guts and lose it all in the space of a single heartbeat. Maybe he had been ruined; he must have been, if he was seriously considering the truth.

Yet it came from him, unencumbered. “I thought you’d’ve wanted some space after … fuck. I wasn’t going to assume anything.” He wouldn’t take intimacy for granted, or his presence as wanted. It wouldn’t have been the first time a woman had spent the night and decided the next morning that his company left something to be desired. He’d come to expect it. He had the kind of personality that appealed after a few drinks, and a face that looked interesting half-lit in a dingy, dive-y bar, but in daylight both disappeared.

Before his eyes, her expression changed; from delight to something he couldn’t describe, something that looked a lot like her hands felt, tracing gentle shapes on his chest. “I want the opposite of space,” she told him. “Do you know how long I’ve –“ She trailed off, a small laugh catching on her exhale. “I want the opposite of space, Auruo. I missed you this morning. I woke up and reached for you and you were gone. For a second, I thought we’d gone to my place and you’d slipped out before I woke, and I started to get upset when I saw your sheets and room and remembered.”

“What?”

“Yes, Auruo. I – you have no idea how long I’ve –“

“How long?”

She bit her lip, and he found the sight so unbearably attractive it took every ounce of willpower not to kiss her right then. “Not immediately, okay? You were such a jerk at first.”

“I thought you’d say I still am.”

“You’re right. I’ve just gotten better at dealing with it.”

“Uh huh … so you were saying?”

She was quiet for a long time. Her hand slipped down from his neck to trace circles on his chest, catching the curly hair there. “Since the soup.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this!”

Their sophomore year, Petra had come down with pneumonia; being stubborn and determined, she refused to take the rest of the semester off, and instead enlisted him to help her keep up with her work. Every few days he’d swing by her professors’ offices to pick up the notes and assignments for the week, but before he brought them back to her, he’d stop at the student union and get her a bag of crap that people like when they’re sick, like magazines and mushy movies. He never had enough money to spare, but he managed because each time she opened the door for him, she smiled wide enough that it almost distracted from her wan complexion, the circles painted beneath her eyes. It wasn’t long before he started bringing her food as well, mostly soups, as they went down easier.

“I can’t believe you remember that,” he said, dazed.

“Why wouldn’t I? It was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It is!”

“It wasn’t that big of a deal, Petra.”

“I thought it was. The whole routine probably took you a couple hours at the least, especially when you started making me food, but you did it without really complaining about it.”

“I definitely complained.”

“Yeah, but it’s that fake-complaining you like to do. Where you just gripe about things to fill dead air.”

He blinked down at her. She was always taking him off guard with crap like this; knowing him so well that sometimes she could explain his own character better than he could. “Geez,” he muttered.

Her fingers skimmed his cheek. “So that’s when. It’s been years and years, Auruo. And now that I’m … now that I’m here with you, I want the opposite of space from you, okay? I want you to smother me. After all this time, I want that more than anything.”

The thought of her reaching for him, half-caught by sleep, raised a lump at the back of his throat. All this time he’d been so worried she wouldn’t want to see him, and in the next room she’d been reaching for him, aching from the space he’d left. He could hardly breathe, looking at her; he could hardly see straight. Slowly, he forgot his worry, his fretful anxiety; everything he knew his whole life. He rolled on top of her, balanced on his forearms, and shot her a breathless smile. “So let me give you the opposite of space.”  


	40. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> petruo + help

In the near distance, a Titan lumbers on. Two soldiers ride hard for its position, rise in their saddles and grapple a solitary pine, soaring above the undulating meadowgrass. Their advance is a mirrored image. staggered by the man’s eagerness. He engages directly, blades flashing – she slips after, unbalances, undermines. He goes high for the kill, she goes low for an assist. They’ve done this a thousand times; the sight of his heels fast and familiar.

Petra doesn’t see the cut, or hear the Titan’s roar, or feel the heat of its blood spattering the grass behind her. There’s a crack, and that sound is all she knows. Shards of a broken blade glint in the daylight, and a spurt of red arcs toward the ground. Auruo, still poised from their kill, cloak billowing out behind him. The air stills, slows – she thinks he’ll shake it off and continue his onslaught, but he crumples in midair, tips downwards– and for a sickening moment she’s certain that he won’t catch himself in time, that he’ll shatter on the ground, and she’s too far away, too slow to catch him, too small to reach –

At the last second, there’s a haphazard blast of gas before he bounces, skids, sprawling in the grass with a clatter of gear and blades. She whistles for the horses, a shrill crescendo, and sprints to his crumpled form.

He’s already trying to get to his feet, but his features are contorted in pain – almost unrecognizable without his smirks and grins, the tender smile when he thinks she’s not looking. Wet gasps ooze between his clenched teeth.. “Just – ha, Just –” He waves a bloody hand at her and brings it back to his side; as she stares, crimson pools around his fingers, soaking through his shirt. “It’s a n-nick, tops –”

She pushes him down in the grass, suddenly furious. “It’s not a nick, you idiot.” Her hands shake.

It’s not safe, she thinks, and she knows he’s thinking it too – his eyes are pitted wide, darting from side to side even as he shudders under her hands, teeth chattering. “Get the f– get off, you dumb n-nag,”

She could scream in his stupid face for a thousand years. Bleeding, battered, a breath away from unconsciousness, and still he’d refuse her help. She’s trembling hard enough to rattle her teeth, blazing with fear and adrenaline, but she bunches his cloak hard against his side before darting to her saddlebag, fumbling for the kit and firing the signal.

“You – what happened?” She rips aside the tattered shirt, ignoring his gasp of outrage. The wound stretches from rib to hip, bleeding fast, but it is not deep. She can fix this.

“Will you just – go,” he shudders under her hands. “There’s m-more comin’.”

He’s so pale. How could he have lost so much already? Her knees are soaked red, and he’s pale as bone, pale and cold. But her hands are fast, even shaking, even afraid – she packs the wound and wraps it quickly, bracing for the telltale rumble of earth, another advance.

“You’re fine,” she tells him firmly. Stubborn. “Look, it’s already slowing.”

“Ha …” He shudders again.

“We’ll wait a little longer, then you’ll ride with me. And you won’t be an idiot and charge off again.”

“You’re the idiot,” he breathes. “I …”

Her eyes flash. “Auruo Bossard, don’t you even think about it.”

But he’s nothing if not bold. (Rash, reckless, such an idiot, it’s any wonder he was still alive). “What are you doing, getting all m-moony over me …”

“Are you stupid?!”

He’s quiet for awhile. The earth is silent, and she thinks it’s a small mercy, one they deserve under such an open sky, red and sorry and shivering. He looks at her as if she’s said something both funny and tender, and she hates that most of all – that he understands sometimes, that he’s even capable of it now. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s both wrong and true.


	41. eremika

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eremika + things you said after you kissed me

__

It had been an accident; of that much Mikasa was certain. Later she would cloak herself in the silence of the first corner she found, one that might still her racing heartbeat, and consider the moment from its various angles. It hadn’t been a second of terror or uncertainty; in fact, the day had been quiet, wrapped in such lovely trappings that she could hardly reconcile them to the world she knew. They had found a small alley where they could watch the horizon and talked until she was almost hoarse, and the furrow between his brows smoothed away; there had been peace and laughter, a smile that reached his eyes, if only for a moment. And later, the sunset sky stretched above them, streaked blood red and orange, bright as flame. The world is beautiful, she remembered slowly, watching him. So beautiful.

She rolled the cup between her hands, sloshing a bit of tea over her wrists. The sun had set by now, and a slow chill descended upon the street, seeping to her bones. She shivered, her shoulders brushing against his, light as a fingertip. He was closer than he’d been a half hour ago – there’d been a gulf between them, a breach between which the air crackled and shimmered, beckoning. It stunned her to realize that he’d been the one to close it.

He turned to look at her, and his eyes made the bottom drop out of her stomach. Had they always been so green? Sometimes there were flecks of blue, in a certain light. She imagined they looked like the sea from Armin’s book, the true sea, the one that loomed out there somewhere, beyond the Walls.

“Are you cold?” he asked her.

“No.”

“Mikasa …” Said like a sigh.

Before she could say anything, he tossed an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, and he was warm – he’d always been warm, since Shiganshina, since Trost, since the forest and every other battlefield and graveyard that lay behind them. But this was a different sort of heat. Her side tingled where they touched, and that same heat warmed her cheeks, her hands, her heartbeat.

After a while she noticed that he was trembling, and reflexively she put her arm around his waist. She understood; tomorrow they rode for Shiganshina again, and the weight of what they must accomplish weighed more heavily on Eren than almost anyone. He would put the whole world on those shoulders if he could. But he would not be alone. She could defend herself now, and she could defend him.

“Don’t be nervous,” she told him gently.

“What?! I’m not! I just – you were cold.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending. Why should the two be related? Eren often treated any physical contact as fussing, as if she were a schoolmistress commenting on the state of his dress and manners, but he wasn’t acting that way now; in fact she saw his throat bob as he swallowed, and his hand trembled against her shoulder. His strange mood settled over the alley like a fog, enveloping them. Whatever it was, it made her nervous too, gave her the sense of approaching a source she didn’t yet know or understand.

“So are you,” she said, and pulled him closer. She caught the scent of smoke in his hair, and cedar, and it made her so terribly homesick that she had to swallow a rise of thickness at the back of her throat. She could stay here, though; for a little longer, she could curl into him and savor his warmth, his lovely dimension, the space he occupied in the world, and the home he’d made in her heart.

“Mikasa,” he whispered, hoarse. Shaking badly, now.

She regarded him with increasing alarm. “Are you sick?!”

Of a sort, she would think later. Some kind of sickness, some beautiful madness, had overcome him, and it had been an accident. He hadn’t meant to do this – hadn’t meant to pull on the scarf, brushing his fingers against her neck before cupping it between his scorching palms – hadn’t meant to make her shiver, or need – hadn’t meant to look at her that way, like he had never seen her before, and he never wanted to look anywhere else. He hadn’t meant to, because it was too much, too beautiful, too impossible – far, far too much.

But his lips found the corner of her mouth, tentative, trembling; he made a half sound before kissing her again, harder this time, hard enough to bruise if she bruised anymore, and that was all she knew.

Abruptly he drew away, his eyes wide. “I’m sorry –“ he said, and she couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear to hear him regret something that had lit a fire in her bones, etching itself to the inside of her ribs like the rings of a tree, marking each violent, sudden change. Before he could draw away, she closed the sudden distance and kissed him again, until he wrapped his arms around her – and this was a mistake, an accident, some vulnerable dream, but for now she let it carry her away, and thought of nothing but him.

 


	42. hilow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hilow + collapse

It is a slow thing, her collapse, their coming together.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, the only sound in the dark. Of course he asks her. Of course he pauses before his hands slip down her shoulders, before he pulls her close. She knows he wants to; she can nearly taste his need on the air, a shivering reflection of her own. But there’s a right way to do things, after all.

“Stupid,” she says, squeezing his arm a little too roughly. But she’s twisted up by her inexplicable fascination with this inexplicable person, driven to roughness when a tease would fit better; of course he would ask, of course. She loves him for it.

She grabs a fistful of his jacket and yanks him close, thrilled at her daring. How many times had she stared at the strange loveliness of his shoulder blades beneath his shirt, the angle of his neck, that ridiculous haircut that she hates and adores. How many times had he caught her staring, how many times had she brushed her shame away with a tease? (“Your collar’s all messed up again … geez Marlowe, don’t you know how to press your uniform?”) There’s no reason to hide her appraisal now; in the dark, she sees with her hands. She pushes his jacket aside and presses the dimension of those lovely shoulders into her palms, nearly shuddering with delight. They’re so wide, so unlike her own.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” she teases, but the need is bare beneath.

His breath is ragged; his hands tremble. “I can’t see you.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark.”

“Of course not.”

“So get over here.”

She can feel him frowning. “I want to look at you.”

Her face warms. “What?!”

“What’s so strange about that?” Slightly defensive. “I like looking at you.”

She blinks. This is incomprehensible; more so than anything else he’s said or done, even today. Right now her hair is hopelessly tangled, her cheeks splotchy, shirt askew over one shoulder. She has a pimple on her nose. Her stomach sinks; he doesn’t know what he’s asking, of course he doesn’t. She laughs nervously. “I always knew you were crazy.”

“Why is that crazy?” More loud frowning; god, he’s ridiculous. She wants to kiss him all over again. “Don’t you like looking at me?”

Of course, she wants to scream. It’s all I do, you moron. “Sometimes.”

He seems to hear the truth hiding behind the lie anyway; she wonders sometimes if his stubborn adherence to honesty has given him a preternatural insight into the untruths of others, the ability to sense it in the air, in the weight of the words. It would explain a lot.

Maybe she’s just obvious. That would explain a lot, too.

He doesn’t press the issue (of course he doesn’t). She wants to give him crap for it because she takes comfort in being contrary, but before she can he reaches for her in the dark, and the bottom drops out of her stomach.

Somehow, he’s the one that bridges whatever feeling lingers deep in him, brushing her cheek with his thumbs; he’s the one smoothing the furrow between her brow, tracing the angle of her nose, tucking a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. She shivers beneath the heat of his hands. She wants to reach back, commit his face to memory the way he does now with hers, with caught breath and trembling fingers, but she can’t move properly, she can’t breathe. If she moves, if she makes the slightest sound, the moment will shatter and she’ll lurch upright in bed, aching and alone.

Get out of there, that old, cowardly instinct commands. Get out of there before it gets worse. It knows somehow that there would be no coming back from this plunge, that she could fall far more easily than she could climb out of it. But she doesn’t care about that anymore; she’s never been touched like this, never been looked at like this, it’s never been like this. He’s not even kissing her and she’s drowning.

Go to hell, she tells her instincts, and kisses him hard.


	43. petruo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> petruo + patching up a wound

Auruo sucks at his teeth. A tangled mess of fear and irritation churn in his stomach, catching on the edges of his thoughts, but as he takes Petra’s wounded arm his motions are gentle. She meets his gaze briefly before looking away. Slight color decorates her cheeks, making the freckles nearly disappear.

“Now, what kinda shit d’you say to me when I’m in your spot?” he muses aloud, swabbing the deep gash on her arm. “How ‘bout … ‘be more careful, Auruo! Don’t go chargin’ off on your own!’ Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“I wouldn’t need to say any of it if you were more careful,” she snaps, pinning him with a glare.

“Oh shit! Almost forgot: ‘You’re gonna get yourself killed, carryin’ on like you do!’ Can’t forget that one. So important to the whole naggy wife routine.”

“I am not your wife.”

“Yeah, you sure ain’t. Maybe someday, though. Y’know. If you get your crap together, stop bein’ so reckless.”

“I’m reckless? I –” The rest of her retort is swallowed by a tight gasp of pain, and her arm jerks out of his grasp, upending the roll of linen in his lap. “I”m sorry,” she says, eyes squeezed shut.

He presses his lips together in a firm line and takes her arm again; this time, his fingers are so light they hardly brush the surface of her skin – hot to the touch and inflamed red, a worrying sign. So much for that. He’d thought to distract her with his shithead routine, but apparently the pain is simply too keen to allow distraction, and fear makes his tone of smug jocularity tight with what must sound like annoyance.

“It’s fine,” he says finally, affecting a breezy shrug, but the knot of anxiety in his stomach pulls tighter. “I bet it don’t feel great.”

“It’s – no, that’s not it,” she says and looks away, trembling, her lower lip caught between her teeth. And it hurries him on, unsteadies him further. It’s the pain, or the onset of infection; chased by his worry, he takes greater care with the wound now, cleaning it as thoroughly as a healer might. The sight of it makes his stomach turn. She could die, he knows – she could still die. She wouldn’t be the only one to go out this way.

“They gotta start bringing the stitchers with us,” he mutters, increasingly harrowed, unfurling the roll of gauze. “Someone who actually knows how to do this shit.”

“For a scratch?” Her incredulity nearly burns. “They’re needed to treat more serious wounds.”

“What would you know about it? You could’ve stabbed yourself and you’d still send ‘em on their way. ‘Oh, someone else needs it more than me, don’t waste your time,’ geez. And you call me an idiot.”

“You are an idiot,” she retorts. “You’re always an idiot.”

“And you’re always a touchy nag, you know that? Geez. Here I am, delicately nursin’ you back to health, and you can’t even give me a break for two minutes.”

“Two minutes? Fine.”

“Fine.”

If she hadn’t been wounded, he knows she would have jabbed her elbow into his ribs for being so insufferable. He can’t decide if he’s gotten off easy or not.

Slowly, he wraps her wounded arm. A shudder rattles his wrists, shakes his palms, and the bandage trembles between his fingers; she watches the tail of it shiver in the stillness before looking back up at him, and he can feel the heat of her gaze between his brows. Is this rootless worry? Residual adrenaline. He remembers the Titan reach for her, remembers her rocketing from one side of the ruined hamlet to another, and in that brief moment she had looked like an angel, like a picture he had seen of one – beautiful and terrible, dangerous as a storm. In the sunlight, her blades and hair caught fire, and she streaked like a flame across his sight, an elemental woman. And for a moment that old traitorous fear had left him, and he’d flown with her.

But he remembers watching her fall. Remembers the icy clench of fear that had taken him by the throat. He’d thought she was dead, but after he’d cut down the Titan and grappled to her side, he’d seen she was only wounded; she’d caught some loose shingle on the roof where she’d fallen, and it cut through her jacket and skin like butter. He rolls the edge of his tongue between his teeth, biting until he tastes blood. They weren’t gods and angels, they were weak – small and so easily broken.

“Thank you,” she says after a long time, when he’d nearly finished. (It had definitely been longer than two minutes).

“What’re you thankin’ me for,” he mutters, smoothing the bandage. In his fear, he forgets to boast or pretend or make a mockery of the gesture with arrogant sarcasm. “Not like I’m gonna let you bleed to death or some shit, bravely carryin’ on while you send away the healers.”

“Still,” she says with a small smile, ignoring the bait. “You could have made it more unpleasant.”

“Well, I try.”

He ties off the bandage as best he can with unsteady fingers, but his touch lingers, becomes solid and firm, desperate. They sit on the outskirts of camp, spattered with muck and blood, he clutching her wounded arm like a supplicant besieged. The moment she’d fallen, he thought he would never feel this warmth again – the warmth of her, like sunlight, like flame. Now that he can, it overwhelms.

She might tease him about it later – he might even tease himself, when the fear fades. But he doesn’t care to pretend anymore. “Be more careful,” he whispers, conceding.


	44. petruo

“Seventeen meters.” 

Petra scoffs. “It was not.” 

“Don’t take this away from me, nag.” 

“You can’t take away something that doesn’t exist – it was fifteen, like they always are.” 

Auruo shoots her a reproachful look over the rim of his teacup, slurping his tea in the most obnoxious manner possible because he knows it annoys her. “Why are you so cruel?” he nearly wails, in a wounded tone as sincere as the rest of his affect. His lips twitch against a grin, and he takes another rude sip to mask his delight. “How would you know how tall it was, anyway? Everything’s tall to you.” 

Her expression flattens. “So a seventeen meter might seem even taller, then,” she says coolly. “Sorry, Auruo. It was just a regular old kill.”  _As if there could be such a thing._ The glib way he talks about his tally makes her stomach clench with a feeling she has no name for – something protective and fierce. He would throw himself into the mouth of a wheat thresher if he thought it might serve his reputation. And its tender, terrible counterpart; he would kill himself for another. 

“It was already flat on its back by the time you showed up – half disintegrated and everything!”

“I saw the bones. Fifteen meters.” 

“You’re the cruelest, awfulest woman alive. Rip out my heart and eat it, why don’t you. They oughta call you Lady Guillotine, the way you cut me down.” 

“Very funny,” she says, rolling her eyes, forcing the smile down. It will not do to laugh when she’s determined to be angry with him – when he so richly deserves it for being stupid and careless, far too bold. For making her worry. 

They’re not the only ones in the mess nursing tea and speaking in low voices, while the rest of the world sleeps. It isn’t even a departure for them; often on their first night back he will drift through the halls, too jittery for sleep, too vague for contemplation, so they keep a small vigil in the mess, or sprawl outside when the weather is good and the sky is clear, and they can see the stars. 

But tonight it rains; gusts of wind rattling the glass, pushing at the trees until they creak and bend in protest, leaves hissing. A torrent lashes against the window, the sound like rattling of chains, and Auruo flinches. The cup shivers in his hands, sloshing dark liquid on the table. He sets it down before she can say anything. 

Not that she would – not even when he’s being insufferable. She pretends not to have noticed, and he pretends that it didn’t happen, and they go on pretending.

“You know it’s thirty now, right?” he says with a little of that unnatural braggadocio, the corner of his mouth pulling up. 

“How could I forget? You never pass up a chance to tell me.” 

She would know even if he didn’t – she marks that terrible count closer than he does, threading each number to the memory attached: each time he broke away and left her behind, and rode into danger alone. Frustration snarls in her chest, a savage bramble. They were supposed to be a team – that was the deal they made, before they understood the dimension of that promise, how impossible it would be to keep.

Today they’d encountered that stupid fifteen meter as the horizon darkened, and the sky rumbled with warning. He’d thrown himself at it before they’d even drawn up a plan, and by the time she’d launched from her horse, intent on a combined kill, he’d already grappled its neck and hurtled toward it, wearing an expression she only saw on the field: eyes that burned with mad hatred, lips pulled back in a vicious snarl.

She landed first, closer to the ground as she was; he was not far behind. He stood with his back to her, at the side of the steaming corpse, his shoulders lifting. He wiped a smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, and she thought for a heartbeat that it might have trembled. His eyes closed; the look faded. For a few moments, he was the boy she’d known before the mask slipped back in place and she lost sight of him. “Pretty good, right?” he’d asked her when he caught her staring, with that cocky grin she hated, a stranger’s grin.

“You’re an idiot,” she’d snapped, mounting her horse.

Now, she is less angry but more concerned (which is sometimes sharp on her tongue); he smirks and mugs and boasts about his exploits on the battlefield as if there were nothing better in the world, as if they’re the only thing that matter. _Your life matters,_ she wants to tell him – remind him, because he so often forgets. _You’ll keep it longer if we work together._

“Here’s the part where you admit to bein’ impressed.” 

“I’m not impressed. Youknow I hate it.” 

“You’re so dramatic.” 

“ _I’m_  dramatic!”

They’ve had this argument before; she can almost hear Gunter’s reproachful sigh, Erd’s retort: _You’re both dramatic._ What would they know? If she is loud or nagging or schoolmarmish, it’s completely his fault; he drives her to distraction with the regularity of a metronome. She hadn’t thought it possible that one man could inspire in her such heights of anxiety and annoyance by his many faults, and those qualities he kept buried within, and the excruciating gulf between them. _He’s an idiot,_ she thought with ire, with dismay, with tenderness. _Such an idiot._

Another wash of rain pounds on the roof, a background haze. Auruo lifts the cup again but this time he doesn’t smile – he watches her with one brow arched, his mouth incredulous. Something flutters in her stomach. “Why d’you get so bent out of shape about this?”

“I’m not bent out of shape.”

“You practically got steam coming out your ears.”

She tucks her hair behind both with a defiant quirk of her chin.  “My ears are fine.”

“Well …” An incorrigible smirk. “They’re alright.”

“Auruo,” she sighs. She knows what he’s doing – he’s trying to goad her into their familiar give and take, and normally she’d take him up on it with great delight. It’s their sole comfort and diversion when they wear the uniform and perform their duties, as befits an elite soldier. Only in their rooms, dark corners, when the room empties, are they unveiled, unmasked.

“What. You gonna tell me what’s chafing you now?”

She sure as hell will. “Do you know how much I hate watching you throw yourself at Titans, without even thinking about it – without even making a plan with me? Just throw yourself at it and kill it fast. And you do, most of the time. But what happens, say –“

“I’m not doin’ any hypothetical bullshit exercises with you.”

She ignores him. “What happens if you—oh, I don’t know. Maybe the thing you hooked is an Aberrant, and catches you off guard, smashes you, and you’re a smear on the ground.” She slams her palm down hard enough to rattle the teacup. “Now what. What am I supposed to do? You’re dead – and now this thing’s coming for me. How much help do you think you’re going to be then? Was that part of the deal?”  

His eyes widen, and he doesn’t recover immediately. “That ain’t fair,” he says, nearly hoarse. His mouth sets. “It’s not gonna happen.”

“Will you please listen to yourself! Of course it could happen – it _will_ , if you carry on like this!” Her voice is climbing, despite her efforts – soon devoid of the careful tone cobbled from whatever patience and control she possesses (which, as it turns out, is not that much). “It could have even happened today! It might have.”

“C’mon. Now you’re really bein’ dramatic.”

“You-!”

“Do you get off on treating me like a kid or something?” His lips twist; something she doesn’t recognize flashes across his expression. “You gonna pinch my ear next, rap my knuckles?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you acted like an adult!”

He’s about to retort when a crack of lightning shatters the silence, loud as a cannon blast. He flinches and the teacup jolts from his hand, bounces on the tabletop, contents spilling over and onto her lap before she can draw away. She gasps and he’s on his feet immediately, stumbling in his haste. “Shit,” he hisses. “Shit—“

The tea is lukewarm – more an annoyance that anything – so she doesn’t understand his distress; not until she sees his outstretched hand, a reflexive, uncaught gesture, not until she notices the way it trembles. It comes to her in a rush of understanding, facilitated by the many years between them, knowing his face and the feeling beneath; he is wracked by something deeper than concern, more elemental – something that exists outside the realm of rationality, lives in an animal place.

“It’s fine,” she says, waving him off. “It’s just a little tea. Look, you spilled it on yourself too.” But she’s looking at his hand – trembling, _trembling_ , softer than the steel or stone he affects – and when he sees where she’s looking he pulls it stiffly back, his ears reddening. He knows that she’s seen him to the core, in the time it takes to swallow; this mutual knowing might come as comfort to some, but Auruo takes it as he does most things.

“Will you just – _fuck_ ,” he says, stumbling back. “Just –“ He snatches the cup off the table and positively bolts from the room, disappearing into the kitchens before she can call out to him. It’s such a departure from his usual behavior that it alarms her more than the flinch, alerts her to something that’s familiar to her, as familiar as breathing. Why does he try to hide it? She knows what it’s like to be afraid.

She finds him elbow-deep in a washbasin, scrubbing the teacup furiously.

“No one’s around,” she told him. “No one’s watching you.”

“What –?”

“So you don’t have to pretend, alright?”

“Dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Auruo,” she says, and she touches his shoulder. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He slows, nearly stops, before resuming at a fervent pace. “Dunno—“

“Don’t you _dare_ say you don’t know what I’m talking about,” she snaps, temper rearing. “Do _not_.”

“Ow! Will you lay off!”

She relinquishes her hold and lets out a taut breath. When she speaks again, her voice is low, painfully earnest. “Do you know how many years I’ve known you, Auruo? Nine. I know you better than anyone here knows you. I know you better than _I_ know anyone, including my family. I know you, alright? I know this bothers you, I know you get rattled and upset, I- I know it makes you remember …” Her voice breaks. “What I don’t know is why you won’t talk to me about it. You used to.”

This time he stops. His shoulders unhitch, and she hears the teacup hit the bottom of the basin, a soft, watery clunk.

“ … after a little convincing, maybe.” She brushes his shoulder again, lets her hand settle this time. He’s always been so bony, even more so when they were young, and it makes her worry as it had then; it’s a habit to worry about him, his hot head and big mouth and the spare life they led.

His exhale trembles, half a laugh. “That’s more like I remember.”

And she’s so profoundly relieved that he’s not brushing her off or making some shithead comment to deflect her concern that her brow tips toward his shoulder, closing her eyes. He smells like tea and soap and spice, and it makes her painfully homesick.

“To answer your question, Petra; yeah. Fuck it all to hell … yeah, I know you hate it. This shit. And you know what else, you goddamn know-it-all nag? I –“ His voice goes hearty, and for a moment she thinks he’s about to say _I hate it too_. He swallows. “I gotta do it anyway.”

“You ‘got to’, is that right? Why. You know we’re in the same squad, right? Finally, after that awful year–“  

“Why won’t you let it go, already?” he interrupts, whirling on her. “Why do you have to know every fuckin’ thing that goes through my head? Did it occur to you I might have some shit I can’t – that I don’t want to tell you?”

Her eyes burn; temper coils around her heart. “… So is it ‘can’t’ or ‘don’t want to’?”

“Fuck, Petra …”

“You think I’m a meddler, I get it! I’m sorry my concern inconveniences you –“

“God, will you stop that? That’s – fuck! That’s not what I’m saying.”

“What _are_ you saying, then?!”

He ran a hand desperately through his hair; the soap made it stick up. “You’re my comrade … my – it’s not me sayin’ I don’t think you can handle yourself, because I know you can. More than anybody, probably. I’m just … when we’re out there, and I’m looking at one of those fuckin’ things, thundering at us, and I’m looking at you or Captain or whoever, I’m always – I always – I don’t really think about it, not like normal, it’s just … it’s just better if I try and take care of it, alone. So … so it’s over, and it can’t do anything.” _To anyone_ , he leaves unsaid. _To you._ Her breath freezes in her chest, dead air.

She almost challenges why again, begs for some better reason, but she already knows and she can’t bear to hear him say it again. The words creep up the back of her neck like a chill: _My life is a cheap thing._ “It’s not better,” she insists. “You idiot. It’s not better at all.”

He might have sneered, if they hadn’t been alone. “Uh huh. Why’s that.”

“Because we’re a team. We’re –“ The words catch in her throat. “We’re _partners_. Okay? It’s not better. You don’t think about it? Well, then I’m _asking you_ to think about it. Please, for the love of god, think about it before something that we could have stopped if you were just _thinking_ about it happens–“ Her eyes brim over, and she swipes at them angrily. “Please.”

She knows already that it’s a futile request, but to his credit he doesn’t leer or smirk or dismiss her outright, as he does sometimes when her meddling cuts too close to home. Instead he studies her for a long time, his brows twitching low over unfathomable eyes, and it’s as if he can see through her in that moment, through skin and bone to the small, vital heart of her concern, though it might only be a childish hope, not easily put away. “Alright,” he says, shoulders unhitching. “Alright.” And it’s a lie, but not because he means for it to be.

Later, his hands tremble as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, but it isn’t darkened memory that makes him shiver, makes him need. It is her breath on his neck, and her nose tracing, her lips following – a thousand fevered kisses, in the shape of a promise. 


End file.
